Far More
by sinceyoufellinlovewithme
Summary: Sequel to my precanon AU, The Broken Places, set in the season 1 era and starring Robert and Cora, and a grown-up Charlotte and Eleanor.
1. Prologue

Hello everyone! I hope some of you are still interested in the sequel to The Broken Places, even if Downton's ended for most of the world. (I personally am going to curl up under my bed and refuse to come out again after it ends in the U.S. in a couple months.)

I also hope you enjoy Far More just as much as many of you did TBP. (The title, by the way, is based on Robert's comment to Cora in one of the later chapter of TBP that "you deserve far more than I could ever give you.") FM has a different feel to it, and it's not precanon (which is my favorite period to write about), but I've still had fun plotting it out and writing the first few chapters, and I think you'll have fun reading it. Definitely give me your thoughts and questions in the reviews—I've been known to alter future plans based on reviews!

For those of you who _haven't_ read my earlier pieces, this story is a sequel to The Broken Places, a fic I wrote last summer (northern hemisphere summer ;-) ). I really recommend reading TBP first, but for those of you who hate precanon or are otherwise uninterested in that story (and anyone who did read it and just needs a review!), here's a quick summary:

Less than six months after her marriage, Cora is thrown from a horse and paralyzed from the waist down. Robert has not yet fallen in love with her, but he does care about her, and he's horrified to learn that such an injury in their era will likely mean his wife will be dead within a few months from an infection. (It also means she's incapable of sex, and thus there will be no heir, but his chief concern is keeping her alive, which he feels he owes her as her husband…and as the one who suggested they go riding in the first place.) Robert finds a (historic—thanks to Settees-under-siege for the research help!) German doctor who was a pioneer in the field of spinal cord injuries who's able to operate on Cora so that she'll survive, but he can't make her walk again. This man also corrects Robert's understanding of her sexual capabilities: they _can_ have sex, and Cora should be able to feel some of the sensations. She can also get pregnant, but she can't successfully deliver a child, and thus Robert agrees to continue with their celibate marriage until Cora is past her childbearing years. He also determines not to tell Cora they can have sex and that she can conceive, because he's afraid she'll beg for a child, he won't be able to resist, and she'll die as a result.

Meanwhile, Robert devotes himself to Cora's care and—as he always does in precanon stories—falls in love with his wife in spite of her disability, which she realizes long before he figures it out himself. Eventually, he shouts his love for Cora in the midst of an argument with his mother (who has been trying to have Cora sent back to America and replaced with a woman who can bear a child) that's heard by the whole family and a roomful of guests. He then sweeps his wife upstairs for as much intimacy as they're capable of—it's mostly a matter of what they can do with hands and mouths, since he's afraid to chance a pregnancy. Cora, of course, is stunned at how much sensation she has, and Robert explains that they can have sex the normal way, too—but not now, because childbirth would kill her. After some begging for him to risk it, she accepts this.

Cora has been asking about adopting a baby from a foundling home for months at this point, and Robert finally agrees. They adopt a baby girl (so that there's no question of her being the heir), and she doesn't receive a title as she isn't a full descendant legally—she's simply known as Miss Charlotte Crawley. They both fall in love with her, and when she's three they adopt a second baby, Eleanor.

A lot of reviewers and fellow writers asked at the time how this AU might affect the show as we know it, so I decided to attempt a sequel. Far More picks up in 1912, the same year as season 1 begins. I'll be following some of the season 1 events, with the twist that Cora's disabled and the daughters involved are _not_ Mary, Edith, and Sybil.

So, without further ado, let's get rolling!


	2. Chapter 1

"Cora?" Robert called softly as he pushed his wife's bedroom door open. "Are you up?"

"Of course," she said as he stepped inside and saw that she was. Cora was sitting up in bed, propped against her pillows with a breakfast tray on her lap and the _Daily Sketch_ in her hands. He could see from here that the Titanic was the lead story.

She smiled at his entrance, and he realized she made no connection between the story and his presence. She likely thought he was here to help her dress, as he often did.

As a new bride of twenty, Cora had been thrown from a horse and left paralyzed from the waist down. The first year after her injury had been a nightmarish one for them both, but they had both slowly adjusted and become accustomed to her handicap. The last two decades had been very good ones as they'd raised their adopted daughters, and Robert believed that Cora had been happy. He knew she'd certainly made _him_ happy.

He had fallen hard for his wife sometime after her accident—he could not say exactly when, only that it happened long before he himself had known it. But he was very much in love, he'd finally realized, as well as very much in awe, as he'd watched all the things she could still manage without her legs and observed how her suffering only made her kinder and softer yet.

The Crawleys had hired nurses immediately after Cora had been injured, women who, together, were capable of all the lifting necessary to get her in and out of bed and dressed and into her wheelchair, but Robert was fond of doing these things himself whenever possible. He'd discovered early on how much he liked having Cora in his arms, liked carrying her about the house in lieu of her chair, liked looking after her. He had spent as much of the last twenty years devoting himself to Cora's care as he had managing the Downton estate.

On mornings when he did not have early business on the grounds, he often returned to her room after breakfast to sit and talk as she finished hers, then to lift her in and out of the bath before her maid arrived to do the actual dressing. As adept as he was at taking it all off, he'd never mastered the intricacies of putting her corset and skirts and outer clothing _on_.

"You make a very good substitute for a lady's maid," she'd told him once as he'd helped her bathe. "But you won't be able to find a job anywhere without being able get me _into_ my dresses."

"Yes, but it's not nearly as rewarding to put your clothes on as to take them off," he'd said, slowly kissing her neck.

Robert had come to love mornings with Cora not just for the thrill of having her undressed before him—or for the terrific fun they often got up to—but also for the chance to simply sit and talk with her while she ate her breakfast and took her bath. With his responsibilities on the estate and her work running the house—something she'd risen to beautifully, after a bit of pushing from him, after his father's death—he often did not see her again until dinner.

Yet he was not here today for pleasant conversation. "I take it you've seen the news," he said, taking a seat on his side of the bed.

Cora nodded. "The Titanic? Yes, what a tragic loss of life. Did you see the Astors were aboard? You know I wasn't any great supporter of theirs, but how awful for that girl to have to raise her baby alone…"

"I did see the Astors were aboard and that he was lost, yes. But Cora, I've also had a telegram this morning."

Her eyes clouded with fear. "Was there someone else we knew?"

"I'm afraid James and Patrick were aboard. Neither one of them seems to have been rescued."

"James and Patrick Crawley?" she asked.

It wasn't strange that she asked for confirmation that he meant James and Patrick, their relatives, and not some other James and Patrick, considering how little either man had ever been mentioned at Downton. Robert's cousin and his son were the heirs to the earldom, but James, a notoriously unpleasant man, had spoken cruelly to and about Cora on several occasions, leading to Robert's and his father's severing ties with James's branch of the family nearly twenty years ago.

As Robert had no son of his own, James remained the future Earl of Grantham. Yet the title was all he was heir to—Robert had pressed his father to undo the entail he had created before his death, leaving the fortune Cora had brought into the family, as well as the estate itself, to "the eldest legal child of Robert Crawley, with preference given to a son." This last bit had been inserted due to Robert's father's hope that, should Cora predecease her husband, Robert might go on to remarry a woman who would produce a biological male heir. The idea was incomprehensible to Robert. He did not doubt that he was likely to outlive his crippled wife, but he could not imagine ever falling for anyone else.

It was a fear of _not_ outliving Cora, though, that had prompted him—and convinced his father—to have the will changed. As a young man, Robert had taken a shortcut through a rough part of London one day and happened upon a beggar with both legs amputated at the knees. A war veteran, he supposed—Robert was startled to realize that the man was not as old as he'd first seemed and had perhaps even served in the same conflict he had. But he was filthy and hungry, and drug himself along the sidewalk by his arms. Robert had stared at him in horror—not horror at the beggar or his condition, but horror at the suggestion of the life Cora would be reduced to if she had no money. And, if he predeceased her and her fortune went to James, she would have none. He did not want to assume or hope that her parents or her brother would still be living and ready to rescue her. He wanted to know that he had done everything in his power to ensure that his wife would be taken care of, and he had begged his father, almost on his knees, to alter the inheritance. Patrick, who had, his frustrations with her forced infertility notwithstanding, grown very fond of his daughter-in-law, was easily moved by Robert's fears and readily agreed to undo his entail. The fortune and the home would now pass to their eldest adopted daughter, Charlotte, who adored her mother and who would certainly see to her care.

"Yes," he said, drawing himself back to the present. "James and Patrick Crawley are both dead."

"That's terrible," Cora said after a moment. "I can't pretend to have had much affection for James, but how terrible to think of him dying so young—and what an awful death it would have been." She shuddered. "And Patrick! I always think of him as a little boy, but he'd be about Charlotte's age, wouldn't he? Or a year older—22? That's the real tragedy of it." She paused. "But what does this mean for the earldom? James didn't have a brother, did he? Have you got another cousin?"

He shook his head. "No, he didn't have a brother, and no, I haven't got another male cousin on my father's side. I'm actually not at all sure who the next heir would be." He saw her chewing her bottom lip, and he knew she was regretting for the thousandth time that she had not been able to give him a son.

"But it's no matter, darling," he went on, taking her hand in his and raising it for a kiss. "It's merely the title that's in question, and it's nothing more than a curiosity to me who will get it."

Yet although he would not have admitted it to Cora, it was far more than a curiosity to Robert who the next heir would be. He should have liked to have known young Patrick, to have taught him and mentored him—not in estate management, of course, but simply in the public role of an earl. And perhaps that might be possible with whichever distant relative Murray might find. They had an appointment on Friday to discuss the matter.

And frankly, for her own reasons, it was more than a curiosity to Cora as well.


	3. Chapter 2

On the warm September day that Matthew Crawley was expected to arrive with his mother, Charlotte Crawley took herself off to meet her new cousins and to invite them to dinner. She had not been instructed to do so—her father's plan had been to send a footman with the message—but she thought it would send a far better message (a message that they were respectable people who were to be, well, respected) if a member of the family came in person, and she had proposed dropping by herself to her father over breakfast. He had no interest or time for accompanying her, not when he'd be meeting these people that evening, but he had no objections to Charlotte's errand. Her mother would not be going either, of course—it was far too much hassle to get her into the carriage for such a short, unnecessary trip—and, much to Charlotte's relief, her sister was occupied with a long letter to Evelyn Napier. (If Charlotte heard one more comment about how he was soon to propose, she thought she'd scream, but she was glad to find Eleanor busy. Eleanor was far too flighty to convey the image of strength that Charlotte wanted to send to Cousin Matthew and Cousin Isobel.)

It was her mother whom Charlotte was worried about—specifically, how these new Crawleys might treat her. Parties and dinners had of course not been events Charlotte had attended as a child, but she had gathered, in the way that children often do, that in the early years after her mother's injury, Cora had been snubbed by most of the aristocracy, regarded as a freak who made for good gossip but poor company. Matters had improved over the course of Charlotte's life, with her mother stepping up to run Downton after her father had become earl. Cora and her wheelchair were now an accepted part of the Yorkshire landscape, but that was not the case in London, when they were among peers they saw rarely. Eleanor's recent debut had been particularly unpleasant, with the king demanding to know what in heaven's name was wrong with the countess as she presented her daughter. Cora had managed to smooth over the moment and quiet His Majesty's sputtering, but when Charlotte had found her dabbing at her eyes later, regretting having embarrassed her youngest daughter, it had filled her with a mad desire to take to the streets with a cry of revolution.

Strangers, like the king, were the worst, having had no experience with or prior knowledge of "the crippled countess," as Charlotte's mother had become known. It was this sort of scene that Charlotte was hoping to prevent with her preemptive visit to the Crawleys.

It was a bit of a hike to the house they'd been provided, but Charlotte was accustomed to that. It always seemed so unnecessary to drag the carriage out for a one-person trip to the village on a nice day, and of course, she had never been allowed to ride. Not that she wished to. The very idea frightened her, after what had happened to her poor mother.

She was let into the house by Molesley, the man her father had engaged as both valet and butler for the small household.

"Ah, Miss Crawley! Yes, I'm certain Mr. Crawley and Mrs. Crawley would welcome your visit. Please follow me."

As she did so, she heard a young, irritated, male voice. "I have to be myself, Mother. I'll be no use to anyone if I can't be myself. I may be inheriting a title I don't want, an estate I don't need, and a fortune I won't use, but I won't change for them. And before they, or you, get any ideas, I will choose my own wife."

 _An estate and a fortune?_ Charlotte's nostrils flared. Where on earth had he gotten the idea that he would be getting her inheritance? He'd certainly not been told that; surely he knew it wasn't his. Likely he thought he'd swoop in, charm her parents, and make off with the whole package. He had another thing coming if he thought…

A middle-aged female voice. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me. They'll have fixed on that when they heard I was a bachelor."

Charlotte gasped at this. He thought she'd _marry_ him? Molesley, she noted with satisfaction, was well-trained enough to ignore her sharp intake of breath, and he merely opened the parlor door.

"Miss Charlotte Crawley," he announced, and Charlotte swept into the room. The young man she took for Cousin Matthew—a tall, rather handsome blond—was staring at her with horror. _Good,_ she thought. He might be quite full of himself, and extremely presumptuous, but at least he had the good sense to know he'd behaved badly. Perhaps that would lead him to politeness this evening.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Charlotte said.

The woman she took for Cousin Isobel gave her a small smile. "Certainly not." Matthew continued to gape at her.

"Papa wishes to invite you both to dine at the abbey this evening, if you're not too tired from your journey."

"We would be delighted," Cousin Isobel said.

Matthew still did not speak. A good sign, Charlotte thought. He would have little opportunity to be rude if he were too embarrassed to open his mouth.

"Good," Charlotte said, trying to project an air of authority that she hoped would intimidate Isobel as well. "We'll expect you at eight."

"Won't you stay and have some tea?" Isobel offered as she turned to go.

"Oh no, I wouldn't dream of it. Not when you've just arrived." It wouldn't be a bad idea to take a dig at Matthew before she left, she thought, adding, "And I wouldn't want to push in."

"Lady Charlotte!" she heard Matthew call as she stepped out of the house. She turned. "Lady Charlotte, I hope you didn't misunderstand me—"

"I'm not _Lady_ Charlotte," she corrected. "I'm Miss Crawley. But Cousin Charlotte will do."

He stopped short. "Are you—forgive me; I must have misunderstood. I had thought the earl had a daughter called Charlotte. Who _are_ your parents? Who is it that's invited us to dine?"

"My parents," she said, irritated that he had poor enough manners to inquire after her history, "are the Earl and Countess of Grantham. Robert and Cora Crawley."

There was a silence, and she saw him wet his lips in discomfort. Clearly, he knew enough to know that a daughter of an earl ought to be a lady, but he was not confident enough in his own knowledge to say so. She decided she ought to offer an explanation—everyone else in Yorkshire knew, and she was not ashamed of her background.

"I am their _adopted_ daughter," she said. "And so I have no title—it wasn't possible, legally. Or at least not simple. But they _are_ my parents."

"Is adoption common among the northern aristocracy?" he asked, and she read a professional interest in the question—he was, after all, an attorney. "I was not aware—"

" _No,"_ she said, wishing to end this line of inquiry. She did not believe it would be profitable to explain her mother's injury before he arrived at dinner. She'd decided he'd be better behaved if he were shocked. A shocked Matthew seemed to be a quiet one. "It is not common. But my parents' situation was not common. If you'll excuse me?" She nodded toward the road.

"Of course, Cousin Charlotte. Your horse…" He glanced around, confused.

Charlotte fought the urge to roll her eyes. Yes, they were some distance from the abbey, but what was more likely: that the animal had wandered off, or that she'd walked?

"I didn't bring a horse," she snapped. "My sister and I do not ride."

And she flounced off down the path before he could pepper her with questions about aristocrats who didn't ride.


	4. Chapter 3

"Hello! It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

Matthew looked away from the footman who was taking his coat to see a middle-aged man with dark hair approaching. The earl, he presumed. Lord Grantham.

"We're delighted to be here," his mother said, stepping forward when Matthew did not to shake their cousin's hand. "Aren't we, Matthew?"

"Yes, delighted," he forced himself to say. "Delighted."

He wasn't, of course. He didn't need a crumbling old house or a title or an American fortune. He had a fortune—or at least enough money—of his own, a career of his own, a life of his own. And yet the earl had insisted, and his mother had insisted, and it had seemed reasonable enough in theory that he ought to move nearby to learn the business of being Earl of Grantham. It was, however, an entirely different matter now that he had stepped inside the abbey.

And, if he were honest with himself, now that he had met the eldest daughter of the family. Frankly, he found Charlotte Crawley forward, abrasive, and rude, as well as rather odd, and he now had the impression that his new relatives were a strange group of eccentrics.

Matthew followed his mother and the earl—Cousin Robert, he supposed—into the main hall, where they were met by an impressive line of servants as well as the women of the family, Charlotte and three others. It was a grand room, and Matthew might have been secretly awed by the furnishings or the dramatic ceiling or even the Oriental rug, but his attention was captured instead by the woman whom he presumed must be Charlotte's mother, the countess.

She was seated in an elegant wicker wheelchair. Dressed up in the same evening finery as her daughters and the old lady he assumed was her mother-in-law, but seated in a wheelchair. Was she…ill? She did not look it. Injured, then? Perhaps she had fallen a week ago and broken a leg, but was absolutely determined to be downstairs for this dinner? He half admired her determination, half wondered at her disregard for convention.

And then she smiled, disarmingly, and he quickly looked away, embarrassed at the realization that she likely knew he was staring. His gaze fell on Charlotte instead, who _certainly_ knew he had been staring, for she had fixed him with a reproachful glare.

"Welcome to Downton," he heard the countess say, a soft American accent encasing a sweet voice.

"Thank you," he said, looking at the woman again, and he heard his mother echo his thanks.

"May I present my mother, Lady Grantham?" The earl gestured toward the elderly woman. "Mama, this is Mrs. Reginald Crawley and Mr. Matthew Crawley." The old lady gave a slight, dignified nod, and Matthew and his mother nodded as well. He could sense that his mother was far more interested in the woman in the wheelchair and her medical history, and he silently prayed that she would not say anything awkward.

"My wife, Lady Grantham," the earl went on, and the woman in the chair nodded, "and my daughters, Miss Charlotte Crawley and Miss Eleanor Crawley."

The silence that followed lasted no more than a few seconds, but to Matthew it seemed to drag on for hours. He was not sure what he was supposed to say to any of these people. He would have been at a loss under normal circumstances, but with the elephant in the room of his cousin's wheelchair, he was even more wrongfooted. Any inquiries after health would seem odd and directed towards her, but he was equally unsure whether it was polite to ignore the issue.

"Shall we go in?" the countess—Cousin Cora, wasn't it?—finally asked.

He found himself walking next to Charlotte on the way to the dining room. She was, he could tell, annoyed—likely still at his earlier comment, and now additionally at his more recent impoliteness. Yet he did not think further apologies were necessarily required.

"Your mother," he said quietly, trying to find the best way to acknowledge the situation, "is she ill?"

"No," Charlotte said firmly, "she is not ill."

He wet his lips, unsure what else to say. There seemed to be no polite way to phrase, _What else is wrong with her, then?_

After a pause, Charlotte said, "It was a riding accident."

"And she injured her leg?"

"No, her back."

"Ah," he said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the countess. It wasn't that she was prevented from walking, then; rather, she must find it too painful at the moment. But then he remembered… "I thought you said your family doesn't ride?"

She looked at him as though he were an idiot, and he realized he disliked her even more than he'd thought. "Well, would you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"If you'd grown up with a mother who'd been seriously injured in a riding accident, would _you_ want to ride?"

"You mean, it isn't a recent injury?"

Charlotte shook her head. "No, it was before I was born. She was a young woman."

"Oh." He felt far worse for her now, imagining twenty-odd years of lingering pain that occasionally, he assumed, forced her off her feet. It was an odd fit with the soft smile Cora had given him when he'd arrived. "And it troubles her still?"

Charlotte looked down her nose at him. "Cousin Matthew, I am not sure _troubles_ is the word I would use."

Clearly this was not a profitable line of inquiry, at least not with this young woman. He would express his concern directly to her mother later this evening. "Well, I'm glad to have a chance to meet your whole family," he began, searching for a topic of conversation that would leave Charlotte slightly less waspish. She did not respond, and he took the lack of a glare or snappish comment to be something of a victory.

They were soon in the dining room, where events took a turn for the truly unexpected. Lord Grantham, who had been pushing his wife's wheelchair, stopped at the edge of the room and bent over her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, he slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, and then he lifted her, carried her to the table, and set her down in one of the chairs. He took a moment to ensure that she was seated comfortably and then pushed the chair in toward the table.

It was all a series of neat, quick, practiced maneuvers, and the earl and countess took no notice of their guests as they completed the exercise. Yet it was the last thing Matthew had expected to occur—if he'd thought about it at all, he would have expected the earl to push her as near to the table as possible and then let her transfer herself into a regular chair, for surely she could bear to walk a step or two—and he could not prevent himself from murmuring, "Good _God_ ," under his breath when Lord Grantham first lifted his wife. He heard his mother give a small gasp at the same moment.

Most unfortunately, Cousin Charlotte seemed to have heard him. "Don't tell me you've never seen someone lift another person before," she snapped.

Indeed, that was far from an everyday sight for Matthew, but the lifting—unconventional as it was, in the dining room of a great house—was not his central concern. Rather, he had gotten the distinct impression from the way Lady Grantham's legs had hung—and from the way her husband had helped her arrange herself in the dining room chair—that the lower half of her body did not work at all.

He thought back to Charlotte's earlier comments: _I am not sure_ troubles _is the word I would use…seriously injured in a riding accident…I am their_ adopted _daughter…my parents' situation was not common…_

Was he perhaps looking at the sort of spinal injury he'd only read about? The sort that left you paralyzed? But Charlotte had said her mother had been injured more than twenty years ago—and didn't paralysis kill a person within a matter of months? His only firsthand experience had been a legal case a few years ago involving a suit from the family of a deceased miner who had been thus injured, and who had, as expected, died three weeks after his accident. Surely that was not what was wrong with his cousin Cora.

In any event, he knew better than to ask her eldest daughter.

And then his mother spoke. "Cousin Cora," she began, her tone eager. _Please be making a comment about the house,_ he prayed desperately. _Please be inquiring about tonight's dinner._ Yet he knew his mother, who had been trained as a nurse, was far more interested in the countess's medical condition than he was.

She was also far more forward, and far nosier. "Do your legs not work at all?" Isobel Crawley continued.

Matthew winced inwardly. Charlotte's face turned stark white, and her lips disappeared into a thin line. And Cora, who was clearly not used to such a direct question, visibly flinched. But then she managed a small smile.

"No, Cousin Isobel, they do not. But please, have a seat."

Charlotte's face was still thunderous, but Robert and Cora did not seem to have taken offense, and Matthew hoped very much that his mother would recognize the brush off for what it was and leave the subject alone.

But of course she didn't. "They don't work at all?" Isobel said as they took seats and were served their soup course. "It's not only that you can't walk—you can't even move them?"

"No, I cannot," Cora replied. "But tell me—"

"Are they paralyzed, then? You have no feeling?"

"Yes, paralyzed. How did you find your—"

"And where in your body does the paralysis begin?"

Cora's expression was merely bemused, but Robert appeared to be growing nearly as irritated as Charlotte. "Mother," Matthew broke in, "I'm not sure this is quite the subject we should be—"

"I'm assuming roughly at your waist?" Isobel continued, as though she had not heard him.

"Yes, I—"

"Is this a spinal cord injury? I've read about those, and I'm quite curious—"

"It is, yes," Cora said, a slight tinge coming into her cheeks. "I fell off a horse when I was twenty. But it's hardly fair to you and Matthew if I sit here and talk about myself!"

"Of course not," Robert agreed, in a forceful tone that would brook no disagreement. "We're quite interested to hear about Cousin Matthew's work in Manchester, and his plans here in Downton."


	5. Chapter 4

AN: This wasn't quite my original plan for chapter four, but a few of my reviewers were saying they missed fluffy Cobert, so here's a long, fluffy chapter of Robert taking care of Cora before our love bunnies curl up in bed together. ;-) (See, I do listen to your reviews! So do keep leaving them!)

* * *

Cora heard the _click_ of the dividing door just as O'Brien finished tying off her braid. Robert did not say anything in greeting—a sure sign that he was annoyed with someone—and she watched in the mirror as he sat heavily down in a chair.

She had a fairly good idea who the _someone_ might be this evening.

"Thank you, O'Brien," Cora said, accepting the small jar of lotion that her maid passed her and placing a small blob in her palm. "That will be all."

"Heavens, what a strange woman," she went on, addressing her husband this time, her tone light as she rubbed the lotion into her hands.

Robert replied with a disgruntled snort.

"We were told she used to be a nurse, you know," she said. "So perhaps that explains the interest."

 _"Cora,"_ he began, and she heard his irritation with Cousin Isobel in his voice.

"Robert," she said, twisting slightly in her chair to look at him, "you mustn't think I was offended."

"You didn't look happy," he said.

"Well, I can't deny it was…uncomfortable, I suppose. I don't think I've ever been questioned so directly—certainly not by someone I've just met."

"I should think not!"

"But truly, I wasn't upset. She wasn't _rude_ —"

"Clearly, we have a very different definition of _rude_ ," he scoffed.

"That is, of course that sort of behavior is rude, but in comparison to everything else I've heard for the last twenty-odd years…plenty of people have been _truly_ rude. The king among them, in fact!" She saw Robert's fist clench at the memory of Eleanor's debut. "But Cousin Isobel meant no harm. I think she was merely interested. Oddly interested, but she's nothing more than eccentric, Robert. I think she's really quite harmless."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're certain you weren't hurt by any of it?"

She gave him a small smile and shook her head, equal measures amused and pleased at his protectiveness. "Not at all, darling."

The sharpness in his posture disappeared as he turned the conversation toward her. "Shall I get you to bed, then?"

"Yes, please." Robert stood and then bent over her chair, lifting her as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Although there were several nurses in the family's employ who were, in pairs, quite capable of lifting Cora, Robert had always preferred to handle most of the transfers himself. He had told her early on how much he liked having her in his arms, and she had told him how loved and safe and cared for it made her feel, and thus it had become a habit that neither would have wanted to break. Twenty years on, she still could not help but think of him as a knight in shining armor each time he carried her. She was awed by his strength—Robert was in his late forties now, but she had never seen him strain to lift her—as well as by his tenderness. It was only with Robert that she was honest about how painful her injury still was, and in response he was so achingly gentle with her that it sometimes brought tears to her eyes.

Tonight it was quite painful indeed—unfortunate timing that had simultaneously made the dinner more of a trial, as well as made any nosiness from Isobel Crawley seem perfectly irrelevant. Cora couldn't truly feel beneath her broken vertebra, but she was always conscious of a constant burning from the nerve damage she'd suffered at the time. Then there was the _rest_ of her back—she ached everywhere that she had normal feeling, with her muscles knotting from days spent sitting immobile in her chair, from the strain of compensating for the control she lacked further down, from the stress of her damaged spine. She knew it had been the same even in her twenties, but it seemed as though she'd grown stiffer with each passing year. It had occurred to her that she no longer bothered to wish she could walk—rather, she merely wished not to hurt.

Some days, of course, were better or worse than others, and tonight she could not keep from wincing as Robert laid her down on the bed, as careful as he was.

He caught it, of course—he always caught it. "Is it bad tonight, darling?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

She did not answer him directly. She did not _like_ to answer these questions directly—she hated to complain (somehow, that only made her feel worse), and Robert could usually read the answers in her eyes anyway.

"Could you stretch me?" she asked instead. "Just my back—my legs were done this afternoon."

"Of course, of course," he said, his eyes growing darker with concern. There was always something sweetly comforting in his expression when he was worried about her, as though he were caressing her with his gaze.

He moved to the foot of the bed, took her heels in his hands, and tugged gently, a movement that lengthened her spine. The burning in her muscles sharpened, but there was a feeling of release as well, and she concentrated on that as Robert held the stretch. Then he bent her knees and pushed them down towards the bed, once on each side of her, while she twisted her upper body in the opposite direction, taking a sharp breath at the sensation.

"Breathe," she heard him say softly. "Breathe through it, love." She exhaled slowly, and then he helped her into a seated position, from which he bent her forward, pulling on each of her arms. When he had finished that, he wrapped his arms firmly around her upper body and slowly twisted her, a quick, surprised, "Oh!" escaping her lips at the sudden _pop_ she felt in her back as he did so. She closed her eyes, sighing in relief as he twisted her in the other direction.

"Did that help?" he asked, stroking her cheek once she was straight again.

She nodded. "Yes, it's better. Thank you." She was still hurting, but the earlier throbbing had eased.

"Here, let me turn you over," he said, reaching to lift her again. "I need to give you a massage."

"You don't have to," she said immediately as he picked her up and helped her lie down on her stomach. "You just did this on—"

He silenced her with a hand pressed to her shoulder. "Please. I don't like it when you're in pain, Cora." There was a desperate sincerity in his voice that made her want to kiss him, but of course that was too difficult from this position, so she merely nodded, reaching up to cover his hand with her own.

Robert had begun giving her frequent massages in the early months after her fall, having discovered that relaxing her muscles eased the nerve pain. She couldn't feel his hands, but she could feel the eventual relief they brought.

"What did you make of him?" she asked after a few minutes of silence, trying to distract herself. Her nerves never took well to the pressure at first, and tonight was no exception.

"Who, Cousin Matthew?"

"Yes, him."

"Pleasant enough. A decent man, or so he seemed. He was at least well-mannered enough to be embarrassed by his mother."

Cora smiled into her pillow. She sensed that Robert would not soon forget their first meeting with Isobel Crawley. "Perhaps I could call on her later this week—you know, give her every detail she wants to know."

"You've got no obligation whatsoever to do that, Cora."

"I don't mind, not really. Not in private." She sucked in her breath as the knives stabbing her lower back seemed to twist.

Robert leaned down to kiss her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said sympathetically. "I know this always hurts you at first. It should ease in a moment, darling."

And slowly—after minutes that seemed to drag for hours—it did. Cora sighed, feeling the fire slowly cooling, the blade in her back changing from a long, jagged hunting knife to kitchen cutlery and, finally, to a blunt pair of scissors: an annoyance, not an agony.

Robert recognized the change in her muscles and in her breathing that meant he'd succeeded, and she soon felt his hands move higher, above where she had sensation.

"I don't mind talking with her," she went on, picking up her earlier subject. "It might prevent another scene."

She got something that was half a laugh and half a snort from Robert. "It might. Getting her a governess might help as well."

She chuckled in response. "In all seriousness, she _was_ a nurse. I understand I'm something of a unicorn to the medical world. Think how far you had to go to find a doctor who even thought survival was possible."

Robert kissed her shoulder again, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the massage. She despised the pain that made this necessary, but she loved the feel of his hands on her body, hearing an unspoken _I love you_ in every stroke. He'd grown quite good at this over the years, too, seeming to know instinctively where she was hurting and how much pressure to apply—she could not recall the last time she'd had to offer any directions.

"Oh, that's good," she murmured, feeling his fingers working carefully over the sore area beneath her right shoulder blade.

"You're a mess of knots here," she heard him say. And then: "Charlotte didn't seem to much take to Matthew."

"You didn't think so?" In truth Cora had noticed an air of coldness in their older daughter as well, and she'd been trying to convince herself that she had imagined it.

"No, I thought she seemed…put out by him, somehow. She went to see them this afternoon, you know—perhaps they got off on the wrong foot."

"Perhaps." She knew that, while Charlotte had a very tender heart that was often on full display in private, her daughter had an equal tendency toward a prickly irritability with anyone outside their immediate family. Cora could easily imagine her taking an instant dislike to an innocuous comment of Matthew's, and the whole meeting going downhill from there.

It was not what she'd been planning for. Not at all.

"I had thought…" she began, then trailed off. It seemed almost silly to mention her hopes now, when they'd been so clearly and so quickly shown to be a fool's dream.

"What, darling? What did you think?"

"Mmm, nothing," she said. "Never mind." She was not sure she had the mental capacity to discuss anything more at the moment anyway—she felt as though her body were melting into the mattress, and she sighed.

Robert chuckled and fell silent as well.

She had nearly dozed off when she felt his hands still and heard him whisper, "Is that better, love?"

She nodded. "Yes, very much better," she said, her voice sleepy to her own ears. "Thank you ever so much."

He kissed her cheek this time, and then she felt the mattress shift as he climbed into bed.

"Can you turn me on my left side?" she murmured. It was easier to snuggle with him that way.

He helped her change position and then drew the covers over them both before lying down and wrapping her in his arms. It was always like this—they had never found it natural or possible to roll in opposite directions after Robert had spent the time before bed stretching her legs or rubbing her back. Cora found his arms a perfect comfort as she lay in the dark in a bed she could not leave on her own, and Robert liked to reassure himself that she was still here, still well, her heart still beating against his chest.

They shared a slow, languid kiss before falling asleep.


	6. Chapter 5

AN: Last week we had Fluffy Cobert...this week we have Terrific Fun Cobert (as well as an extra-long chapter). Consider this my thanks to my readers for their patience with my slower-than-usual updates here. I've been working on some other fics on the side ("The Ways They Said It," the one-shot I published Tuesday, and the unpublished-but-coming-soon "To See Wonderful Things"), which has slowed my progress on "Far More." But I promise not to abandon you, and I'll continue updating this at least weekly. In the meantime, enjoy! :-)

* * *

"I had a letter today from Evelyn Napier," Cora said as she pushed the needle through her embroidery once again. It was a few days before Christmas, and Downton was preparing for its usual rush of holiday visitors.

"Oh?" Robert said from across the drawing room, not raising his eyes from his book. She smiled at what she knew was a show of indifference.

"Well?" Robert asked, in a tone that was another demonstration of nonchalance.

"Well what?" she said, determined to match his casual air.

"Cora!" Robert snapped the book shut. "What did the man say?"

She laughed. "You're a great deal more interested than you seemed."

"You know I agree with you that he's about to propose," he said, fidgeting sheepishly. "Even if I don't care for speculation."

"Even if you _say_ you don't care," she said, still chuckling. "Mostly, he says he's coming for New Year's, and that he's happy to see us again."

"So he _will_ be here. Good, good. Anything about…?"

"Not to any great extent. He did say he was looking forward to seeing her."

"But nothing about hopes, plans for the future, hints that he might…"

"No, but of course you don't know what he's writing to her."

"She gets rather a lot of letters at breakfast," Robert mused.

"His?"

"I like to think so."

"Do you have any sense of what Charlotte thinks?" For as glad as Cora was at the thought of Eleanor becoming engaged to Evelyn, she was equally troubled at the obvious fact that he could not marry both her daughters, and then what would her eldest do? She could not imagine, even as accepted as Charlotte and Eleanor were socially, that any other member of the aristocracy would be willing to _marry_ one of them, tying his family to a foundling with no bloodline.

Robert sighed. "To be honest, I think she finds it all rather silly. I think she always finds _Eleanor_ rather silly, and she's got no interest of her own in Evelyn. She's certainly not jealous, if that's what's worrying you."

"Not exactly. I'm worried she thinks what you think she thinks. I'm worried that she's not overly concerned with her own marriage prospects. And she ought to be; it's not going to happen for her otherwise." She'd been toying for months with the idea of sending Charlotte to New York for a season in hopes that she'd bring back an American fiancé.

"Do you think so, that she'll really be that difficult to settle? She does have your fortune."

"And an estate. The money won't stretch to support Downton _and_ her husband's estate. As much as you know I love impoverished earls—" they shared a smile— "that won't be an attractive prospect to a fortune hunter who wants to save his own house."

"I'd rather she didn't get a fortune hunter, regardless," Robert said, his tone serious now. "We could probably find one with no land of his own who'd be glad to take both the estate and the money, but I don't want that for her. I don't want either of our girls in a loveless marriage."

"Sometimes those turn out very well," she teased, but he did not share her smile this time.

"I hate to think of what the beginning of our marriage was like for you," he said

"The last twenty-two years have more than made up for that," she told him. "I don't think I know anyone who's been quite as well loved as I have been." She sighed, imagining herself getting up to sit on his lap and stretching out her hand. "You're so far away over there. I wish my legs worked!"

"But I'm your legs, darling," he said with a smile. It was a sentence she'd heard countless times, but it never failed to warm her. Robert set his closed book on a side table and moved to join her on the couch, taking her in his arms with a kiss to her cheek. "Now, is this what you wanted, Lady Grantham?"

"Perfect," she murmured as she nestled against his chest.

"So do you have a plan for Charlotte?" he asked, returning to the subject as he ran his hand over her hair. She could tell that he was longing to remove the pins.

"Not really," she said with a sigh. Sending Charlotte abroad seemed like just as much of a recipe for fortune hunters as keeping her here, and Cora was under no illusions that her own business-deal-turned-love-match was typical. "I wonder if we haven't created a bit of a liability for her in leaving her the house."

"Well, what else are we to do with it?"

"Nothing," she said, feeling herself smile. She had been afraid to fully form the thought until now, but her pleasure at his response told her she had been more frightened than she cared to admit that Robert would take a liking to Matthew, and there would go her daughter's inheritance. "Nothing at all."

 _Matthew._ He had once been her plan for Charlotte, months ago. Before her daughter had so immediately looked at him with such distaste.

* * *

"Robert, would you mind taking me up?" Cora asked on Christmas Eve. Most of the guests had not yet retired, but she didn't think she could wait one more second to get started on the surprise she meant to announce tonight.

"Of course, of course…are you tired, darling?"

She shook her head. "Not terribly. But I want to have time to give you your present."

"Present?" Robert's eyebrows shot up, and she smiled. He really was such a little boy at times.

Cora shook her head, indicating that she would tell him nothing more, and she murmured good night's to those nearest her as Robert scooped her up out of her chair.

"I don't usually get a present until Christmas morning," he said once they were in the hall. "This is rather new territory."

"I thought you might want to enjoy tonight, and then again tomorrow, too."

"It's something I can use right away, then," he said, his tone indicating eagerness for more hints.

"Well, I certainly hope you will."

"How big is it?"

She laughed as she considered the question in light of what, in fact, _it_ was. "The surprise will be big. I'm not sure the… _thing_ is. I don't _like_ to think it is."

"What color is it?"

"I'm not sure it really has a particular color."

"And I'm not sure I'll go back downstairs. You've piqued my curiosity. I may just call for Bates and retire with you."

" _No_ ," she said firmly. She could not have him bursting in on her before she was ready. "It isn't…wrapped yet. You'll have to give me some time. Go back to the party for a bit."

He sighed. "Must I?"

"Yes, darling. Be a grown-up and go and entertain the guests while I get your present ready," she said, leaning up to kiss his chin.

* * *

Half an hour later, she was stretched out on her bed in a new negligee she'd ordered from Paris, listening to the fire crackle, the room lit only by candles. She had blushed at having O'Brien and a nurse dress her this way and place her on the bed—her plans for the evening now perfectly clear to two of the staff—but it was not as though she could manage on her own, and she certainly could not ask either of her daughters. Yet her embarrassment had been quickly replaced by her excitement. She and Robert had waited _years_ for tonight, and then she had breathlessly waited throughout the fall for time to confirm that her and Dr. Clarkson's suspicions were correct, and at last she had waited the long, painful weeks until Christmas, saving the surprise for tonight. And now…what on earth was Robert doing down there? Surely her clock was broken—the minutes shouldn't be ticking by so slowly.

At last, she heard him enter his dressing room and listened as Bates arrived. There was a low hum of conversation as Robert undressed, and then, at last, there was a knock at the dividing door.

"Yes?" she called, amused at his reluctance to interrupt if his present wasn't ready.

"Are you…have you finished with your wrapping? May I come in?"

"Yes, of course."

The door opened, and her husband stepped inside in his dressing gown. "Cora!" He grinned immediately at the sight of her on the bed. "You look beautiful."

Robert quickly crossed the room and sat down next to her. "If this is my Christmas present, I think it may be my best one ever." He slowly ran his fingers through her hair—she'd had O'Brien leave it loose on purpose, knowing how he loved it this way—and bent to kiss her. She kissed him back, lingering for a moment before gently pulling away.

"There's more to it than you think," she said.

"You mean, this lovely garment?" He stroked his hand over the negligee, tracing over her right breast—she gave a small gasp at the touch—and down her stomach before letting his fingers rest at its edge, just above her knee. "It's quite breathtaking, although I must say that chief among its virtues is that it's diaphanous." Robert leaned close again to whisper in her ear: "Gowns that can't be seen through are highly overrated."

"Yes, it _is_ new, but—"

"Then I should hate for you to wear it out. Perhaps I could help you take it off."

"That's exactly what I had in mind," she said, matching his grin. "But once you've got it off…" She paused, feeling a new lightness in her heart, and reached out to brush her fingers to his cheek. "Robert, Clarkson says we can do this for real now."

For a moment, he did not seem to register that her words had been anything more than a continuation of their seductive banter, and then he froze. "What? Clarkson what?"

"Clarkson says we can do this for real."

"What do you…do you mean we…"

"Yes, Robert," she said, stroking his hair. "I mean you can actually make love to me. Really make love to me. The real kind."

He reached up and caught her hand in his, then brought it to his lips for a kiss. "Cora, everything we've done for the past twenty years has been real. There's been nothing lacking in the love we've shown each other. Not in my eyes, at least."

She squeezed his hand, thankful for the thousandth time that Robert had loved her enough to be satisfied with the limited intimacy they'd been able to have. "Yes, but we can actually…experience it together now." For she thought something had very much been lacking in the way that she and Robert had been forced into separate climaxes, that they could not give and receive pleasure at the same time, that they weren't truly a couple making love _together_.

"What did Clarkson say, exactly?"

She sighed, suddenly impatient. She'd expected him to take her immediately. "I haven't bled since early in the summer," she said. "I mentioned it to him in September, and we thought perhaps I…was changing. I'd had other symptoms too, of course." Robert nodded quickly, and she hid a smile at the realization that he was quite terrified at the prospect of hearing them listed out. "But he thought I should wait a bit longer," she continued, "and make sure things had really stopped, and not just slowed. But they _have_ stopped, Robert, and when I talked it over with Clarkson a few weeks ago, he said he was sure I couldn't conceive a child any longer."

Robert's brow furrowed, and a shiver of doubt slipped through her. "I…Cora, I'm not sure I…suppose Clarkson's wrong. Oughtn't we to wait just a few more months to see if you…you know…"

Did he not _want_ to sleep with her? Had seeing her as a cripple for two decades taken its toll? Perhaps hands and mouths were one thing, but actual sex with half a woman was quite another.

"We don't have to," she said quietly, pulling her hand away from his. "We don't have to at all. We can just…continue as we were, if you'd rather. I don't want you to feel you've got to do anything else, not if you don't want to." She could not roll over on her own and thus settled for lowering her eyes so that he wouldn't see the tears swimming in them.

"Oh, darling." She felt the bed shift as he lay down next to her, and he wrapped her in his arms. "You misunderstand. I want you with every fiber of my being. I want you so badly some days that I think I'll _burst_. But…forgive me—I'm so very frightened that I'll hurt you." He kissed her forehead fiercely. "I love you too much to risk anything happening to you. I'd rather want you and not be able to take you than take you and lose you."

"Nothing's going to happen," she said, looking up to meet his eyes now. "I'm past my childbearing years. I know it, and Clarkson has confirmed it. Your wife is an old woman, Robert."

He kissed her lips this time. "I very much doubt that bit."

"You'll never know if you don't get this nightgown off of me."

"But are you really sure…"

" _Robert,"_ she began, her patience growing thin, "forgive my bluntness, but I ama woman. Clarkson has medical training. You, on the other hand, know nothing whatsoever about a woman's monthly cycle."

"I won't argue on that point."

"Please," she whispered, stroking her fingers lightly across his cheek. "I want you inside of me. Not your fingers— _you_."

"Oh, my darling, you have no idea how much I want to _be_ inside of you." Before she could respond, his mouth was covering hers, his tongue plunging inside, and she gasped at the suddenness. She felt him pause, ever so slightly, at what he must have read as hesitation, but she pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around him tightly in encouragement, and he continued his exploration of her mouth before he pulled back to press kisses down her throat, lingering only briefly in the hollow of her collarbone. He pushed the strap of her negligee aside, pulling at the fabric, trying to get rid of the obstruction between his hands and her body, and she sat up, trying to help him pull it back over her head, but in his frantic frustration the fabric ripped, and he tossed it to the floor. Her own hands made quick work of his dressing gown, and he helped yank his pajamas out of the way before crushing his body to hers. He seemed to have six hands, and she could not catch her breath as they ran over her breasts and her sides and her back and her hair.

"Please, Robert," she whispered as she tightened her own arms around his neck. Yet nothing seemed to happen, and for a second she could not understand why he had paused, until she realized that her deadened legs were tangled up in his, and he was struggling to get her thighs separated.

"I need you on your back," he said, quickly laying her down, her head against her pillow, and she watched as he gently spread her legs. Then he climbed on top of her, but, just as she thought it was time, he paused, gazing down into her face.

"What?" she breathed. She didn't think she could bear it if he stopped now.

"I'm sorry," he said, resting his forehead against hers. "I didn't mean…I shouldn't take you in a frenzy like this."

"No, this is exactly what I want, Robert. The two of us in a frenzy, together." She reached up to cup the back of his head in her hand, gently tugging his face down for a kiss.

"I love you," he whispered breathlessly. "I love you so much, my darling."

She arched her back, pushing her breasts up against his chest. "Now, Robert."

"Yes, _now_ ," she heard him say, and then she saw his body shift slightly and his eyes widen. "Can you feel me?" he whispered hoarsely.

"I…" She didn't, at first, and then, suddenly, there it was. The overpowering sensation of _Robert_ inside of her, moving, thrusting against her. It was nothing like the feeling of his fingers—had that ever seemed pleasurable, compared to this?—and she began to weep as she frantically nodded. She felt her body tighten around him—"my _God_ , Cora," she heard him mutter, his voice strained—and then her chest seemed to explode. His must have, too, for she was dimly aware that he was clasping her harder and sobbing her name.

 _At the same time,_ she thought, kissing him slowly as she felt herself return to earth. "We've finally been _together_ ," she whispered. He responded by kissing the tears that continued to leak from her eyes. "How was it?" she asked hesitantly. It had been truly awesome for her, and so longed-for and welcome and full of love that she could not begin to compare it to the dull, dutiful sex she'd had as an able-bodied young woman…but was it different for him? Did her body feel as good as it once had? Was she…damaged in some way?

"It was _marvelous_ ," he said, pausing to kiss her hungrily. " _You_ were marvelous. You felt…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know how I ever lived without that."

"Was it worth it?" she asked, thinking for the thousandth time how easy it would have been to set her aside and remarry, or even to simply take a mistress. "Was it worth a twenty-year wait?"

"It would have been worth a thousand-year wait," he said fervently. And then he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so that she was on top of him this time, and took her again.


	7. Chapter 6

AN: Hello all! Last week someone left a review questioning Cora's mental use of "awesome" to describe intimacy with Robert, and I wanted to explain that here, because I feel like a lot of people probably thought it sounded too modern, and I probably owe you all an explanation. I actually questioned the word myself when I included it, because I worried that it might make her sound like a modern teenager, which of course is the last thing we want here. (Although I think the world is probably in desperate need of a modern AU where Cora is the very hip "it girl" in her high school, and Robert is a hugely awkward nerd. Someone please write this!) However, in the end, I decided to go with it, because I thought it was a word Cora would have used, and because I thought it was the word that best fit her meaning. In hindsight, I probably should have given more weight to the fact that we're all modern readers with modern ears, and it would be hard to hear the word in anything but its modern sense. So I probably should have given her internal dialogue that didn't have such a split between its historic meaning and its modern use, and sorry to those of you who were thrown by it! But, if you're interested (and given that we all love Downton and we all love words, I think a lot of you probably are), here's what Cora was thinking, based on the word's history.

The colloquial use of awesome (i.e., "cool" or "really great") has only been common since roughly the 1970s or 80s, so Cora wouldn't use it that way. However, the word is much older than that. It first appeared in the 1590s, when it described how you reacted to something, not how great something was: it meant "profoundly reverential." So you might have said, "I am awesome when I think of God," not "God is awesome." But about a hundred years later, the meaning shifted to describe something that filled you with awe, something that was truly incredible, along the lines of "The Grand Canyon is an awesome sight," "Holding my baby for the first time was an awesome moment," or "God's power is awesome." That's the meaning it kept until the end of the 20th century. Now, we've mostly replaced "awesome" in this sense with "awe-inspiring" (and that term existed in Robert and Cora's era, too, but I thought it sounded a bit odd. It's probably what I should have gone with, though.)

The word "awesome" would be in Cora's vocabulary in 1913, but when she describes sex with Robert that way, she doesn't mean what a modern woman would mean (i.e., "That was pretty great sex!"). She's using the word in its historic sense: going all the way with Robert, for the first time in decades, takes her breath away and absolutely fills her with awe. It's not a word she would use often—she'd save it for, say, viewing Iguazu Falls, rather than to describe a burrito she enjoyed. But I think the former is exactly how she would feel about sex in this situation.

* * *

"Isn't it wonderful to have him here?" Eleanor gushed. She was perched on the edge of Charlotte's bed, still in her evening gown, while Anna, the housemaid who dressed both daughters, braided Charlotte's hair. "Isn't he just so sweet?"

Charlotte smiled indulgently. "I suppose I can't deny that he's sweet." And he _was_ —Evelyn Napier was perfectly sweet. He was also perfectly dull, and his looks were perfectly forgettable, and privately Charlotte could imagine nothing worse than having to spend the next fifty years with him. And, as excited as her sister was about their upcoming wedding, she could not help but think that, had they been the _biological_ daughters of the Earl and Countess of Grantham, with eligible suitors swarming all over, Eleanor would not have looked twice at Evelyn. She had fallen for him not because he was a worthy match for her own charm and vivacity, but because he was the only young, male aristocrat who had ever paid either of them any attention at all. The sisters were quite accepted within the Yorkshire gentry, and no one was rude to them, but Charlotte had long had the sense that no earl or duke or viscount wanted their heir to _marry_ a woman with no bloodline. No one, that was, except Evelyn's father the Viscount Branksome, whose late wife had been a dear friend of Cora's. The Napiers had been a frequent presence at Downton throughout Charlotte's life, and thus it had been natural for Evelyn to fall in love with the beautiful Eleanor, and for his father to smile upon the match.

Charlotte did not doubt, really, that Eleanor was in love with him, too. She merely doubted that it would have happened in a universe where Eleanor had more options.

"Did you see the way he looked at me tonight when the men came through?" Eleanor went on.

"I confess I wasn't looking at him."

Eleanor sighed dramatically. "Oh, it was just how he'll look this summer when he sees me come down the aisle."

What Charlotte _had_ seen was the way Evelyn's _guest_ had looked at _her_. The Crawleys were hosting Eleanor's fiancé for a brief visit and a hunt, and he had asked at the last minute if he might bring with him a Turkish diplomat he was looking after in advance of a conference in London. They had readily agreed, and Evelyn had arrived yesterday in the company of a Mr. Kemal Pamuk, who was, Charlotte readily admitted, breathtakingly handsome.

He was also breathtakingly impertinent. His eyes had raked over her all evening, and he had drawn her into a side room under the pretense of looking at a painting…and then he had grabbed her and kissed her forcefully. Shocked, Charlotte had shoved him away and hissed that she would not tell anyone of his behavior for Evelyn's sake, but that she certainly did not expect it to be repeated.

She was replaying the kiss in her mind now. It had been, she supposed, rather fascinating to learn what it was to be kissed by a handsome man, but that had never been the _way_ she'd expected to be kissed. And by a Turk, of all things. She was scandalized and thrilled in equal measures, and she was not sure she would ever get it out of her head.

"There we are, m'lady," Anna said as she tied off the end of Charlotte's braid. "Ready for bed."

"Thank you, Anna," Charlotte said. "Please take Miss Eleanor to her room and undress her as well."

"Char- _lotte_ ," Eleanor whined, "I'll _never_ sleep tonight."

"That's what you've said every evening since he proposed at New Year's. And I _would_ like to sleep, so do get out."

When Eleanor and Anna had gone—Eleanor humming to herself—Charlotte moved slowly into bed. She was not sure she'd sleep either, not with the memory of Mr. Pamuk's lips on hers.

Yet she had not been lying down very long when she heard her door creak open behind her. "Eleanor?" she called softly, for who else would it be?

"I'm not your sister," a man replied in a low, accented voice, and she shot up, spinning around to see Mr. Pamuk letting himself into her room, a single candle in his hand. He was no more dressed than she was.

"Mr. Pamuk! I—what on earth are you doing here?" As though she did not already know. As though it were not perfectly clear. As though he could have a legitimate reason for sneaking into her room in his bedclothes.

Frantically, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown, as though an extra layer were some sort of protection. There was nothing thrilling in this. A stolen kiss was thrilling. This…this was terrifying.

He held a finger to his smiling lips. "Shh."

"Mr. Pamuk, I can't think what has led you to think you would be welcome in my bedroom," she said, willing it to come out as a certain declaration rather than a frightened squeak. "I demand you leave at once."

He shook his head. "Charlotte. _Charlotte._ Who knows when we'll meet again?"

"I don't _want_ us to meet again. I want you to leave." He advanced towards her, and she shrank back. "Please. Leave."

 _He'll leave,_ she tried to tell herself. _He'll go, if it's clear I won't give him what he wants._ And some men would have gone, she knew, but something in Pamuk's eyes made it quite clear that he would not. He would prefer to take her willingly, but he would force her if he had to.

"You won't be the first, you know," he said, stepping close enough to grasp her waist. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. "There's no harm in a bit of fun before marriage. No one has to know."

"I'll scream." Would she be heard? Oh God, she hoped she'd be heard. "I'll scream if you don't leave."

"No, you won't," he said confidently, pressing a kiss to her neck. "You won't let them find a man in your room."

She didn't want that. She absolutely did not want that, but she wanted even less to be forced into intimacy with this man—an intimacy that could very well have its own consequences. And so, as she felt Pamuk's teeth scrape against her neck, she screamed.

Pamuk clapped his hand roughly over her mouth, his eyes flashing. "For God's sake, Charlotte! You'll wake the whole house!"

Not now, she wouldn't, she realized with a nauseous feeling in her stomach. She wouldn't be heard at all. Her screams were too quiet now that he had covered her mouth, far too quiet to wake sleeping family members, far too quiet to reach the hall boys.

He pushed her back toward the bed and forced her onto it as she struggled and thrashed, her screams disappearing into his immovable palm. Oh God, he was…he was going to…

She kicked him furiously and tried and failed to poke her fingers into his eyes—she was determined not to go without a fight—and, for the moment, seemed to be succeeding. He could not tear at her night dress while his hands were busy covering her mouth and holding her down, and she prayed desperately that she would be heard before this could go any further.

And then…

"Char—" she heard her sister's voice begin, followed by a sharp, "Oh, dear _God_!"

Pamuk froze, and so did Charlotte, who was relieved and horrified in equal measure. "Miss Crawley," he began, his voice perfectly smooth.

But Eleanor was having none of it. "Get off! Get _off_ of her!" she shrieked as she flew at them both.

 _"Eleanor!"_ Charlotte could barely breathe at the thought of having Eleanor so near Pamuk's arms, but he dodged her, likely aware that he could not fight two women at once. Eleanor continued to scream as he hurried to the door, where he was met by two hall boys.

The room descended into chaos as Eleanor tried to tell them what she'd found and Pamuk argued that he'd been there at Charlotte's invitation and Charlotte shouted that he most certainly had _not_ and the young men grabbed hold of him as he tried to break free, a still-shrieking Eleanor leaping forward to pummel him with her fists, and at last Robert, still blinking sleep from his eyes, appeared in the doorway demanding to know what all the commotion was.

And it was then that the storm truly broke. Charlotte had not known her father could be so angry—when he took hold of Pamuk's collar, she wondered if she might be about to witness a murder. But Robert had the sense to leave no physical injuries that would have to be explained later, and he also had the sense not to fetch the police, much to the relief of his daughter, who was praying fervently that this evening was a secret that would never leave Downton. Instead, he sent the hall boys to wake Evelyn, who was to escort Pamuk out of the house, as well as Carson, who was to supervise and ensure the departure.

"Papa," Eleanor said suddenly, speaking for the first time since Robert's appearance, "you don't blame Evelyn, do you?" She was standing next to Charlotte, who had sank back onto the edge of the bed, and playing with her sister's hair, which had at some point come loose from its braid.

"I do blame Evelyn," Robert snapped. "He ought to have better sense in whom he brings into his fiancee's home."

"I don't think he'd had time to know much about Mr. Pamuk," Eleanor pleaded. "I'm sure—once he hears, he's going to be horrified. So horrified!"

"I should think so!"

Eleanor fell silent, and Robert turned to Charlotte. "Are you certain you're all right?" he asked softly.

No. No, she wasn't certain. She knew she was not injured in the slightest, but she had never felt less all right in her life. "He didn't hurt me," she said, sidestepping the question and pressing her hands together, trying in vain to stop their shaking.

Her father was silent for a moment, considering. "Eleanor," he said, "why don't you stay with your sister tonight?"

"Of course, I—"

But Charlotte shook her head violently. She did not want to spend the night here, not in the bed where Pamuk had thrown her.

"If it would make you feel safe, Charlotte, we can have some of the staff stand outside your room tonight. I'll stand there myself, if you'd like. Or Anna could come and sit—"

Charlotte cut him off. "Is Mama awake?" she asked, feeling her lip tremble as she said her mother's name. For she did not want Eleanor to lie down with her, or a footman to stand guard outside her room, or Anna to sit up with her: nothing would comfort her or relieve her tears the way her mother would, and all she wanted was to curl up next to Cora.

Her father nodded. "I expect so. Did you want to see her? We both woke up when we heard all the shouting, and I doubt she's gone back to sleep without knowing what's happened."

"Can I sleep with her?" Charlotte blurted out, too scared to be embarrassed at the childish request.

There was a moment's surprise in Robert's eyes, but he recovered. "Of course. I'm sure she'll have no objection. I'll sleep in my dressing room."

On another night, the sisters would have shared an eyeroll at the impropriety of their parents' sharing a bed or muttered to their father that he ought not to admit to such things, but nothing seemed funny tonight.

After kissing Eleanor, Charlotte followed Robert through the halls to her mother's room. "Will you tell her for me?" she asked as they approached. "I don't—I don't want to have to tell her about it."

He surveyed her gently in the darkness. "Of course."

"Robert?" she heard Cora call when he pushed the door open, fear and hesitation in her voice. "What was wrong? Is everyone all right?"

Charlotte hung back in the hallway as he stepped inside, suddenly almost guilty at the incident. She had, she knew, encouraged Pamuk—flirting with him after he returned from the hunt, thrilling at the kiss, blushing and smiling when he had stared at dinner—and she knew her mother, who always noticed these things, was aware of at least some of this.

"Everyone is quite all right," Charlotte heard Robert say firmly. "No one is hurt, but Charlotte's had quite the scare."

Part of her wanted to plug her ears and hum loudly to drown out the story as her father repeated it to her mother, but she was also eager to hear Cora's reaction while the countess thought she had privacy, and she stepped closer to hear the conversation. Charlotte's own face was growing hot with shame at the thought of tonight's events being recounted.

"Mr. Pamuk apparently found his way to Charlotte's bedroom," Robert was saying.

"Oh God," Cora breathed, "did he—tell me he didn't—"

" _No._ Charlotte is unharmed. "She fought him—quite bravely—and shouted until Eleanor heard her and came running—"

"They've _both_ been involved in this?"

"Charlotte was very clear that it was only thanks to Eleanor's arrival that she was saved. The two of them together managed to rouse the hall boys, and that was when you and I heard the noise, and I went running down there."

"But what have you done with _Pamuk_?" There was a hard anger to her mother's voice that made it almost unrecognizable to Charlotte's ears.

"He's leaving right now. Evelyn's been awakened, and they're both dressing. Carson will see them out."

"And Charlotte? Oh God, my baby…are you quite sure she's all right? How did she—"

"Yes, she's quite unhurt, and—"

"Take me to her," Cora demanded, her voice wavering. It was not a voice that promised a lecture for an irresponsible daughter; rather, Charlotte heard the same desperation she had felt to be near her mother reflected in her mother's own tone, and she swallowed hard.

"Darling—"

There was a rustling of fabric that Charlotte took to be Cora's pushing aside of the bedsheets. "I must see her, Robert," she went on. "Please—"

"She's here, darling. She asked to see you. Char—"

But he did not need to call her name, for Charlotte had already stepped into the room. One of the gas lamps had been lit, and Cora was propped up on her elbow, her face stark white. There was grief in her eyes, and fear, but no judgment or anger, and Charlotte felt herself beginning to crumble.

The word _Mama_ burst from her lips—she was not sure if it had been whispered, shouted, or sobbed—and she half ran, half stumbled to the bed, where she immediately climbed in and lay down alongside her mother.

Nothing about this felt odd to Charlotte. The Crawley sisters had grown up without ever having a thought of their mother's coming to them, and neither had ever been embraced or held by her while standing. As small children, it had been their custom to climb into her lap when they wanted her attention, and, as they'd gotten bigger, they'd become used to taking seats at their mother's level for any prolonged conversation and to lying down next to her if she were resting in the afternoons or if they wanted comforting after a nightmare. Charlotte could not quite remember how long it had been since she'd been in the latter situation, but she didn't think she'd ever had a dream as a child that was anywhere near as frightening as tonight's reality had been. She moved as close as she could to Cora, clinging to her tightly.


	8. Chapter 7

Cora wrapped her arms around Charlotte as her daughter pressed her body to hers and buried her face in Cora's neck. Charlotte did not speak, and she did not seem to be crying—at least, Cora felt no wetness on her skin—but she was shaking, her body trembling against Cora's.

Cora felt her own hands tremble with her fury—how _dare_ this man go near her baby—and she forced them to be still as she stroked Charlotte's loosened hair. It was, she realized quickly, a tangled mess—a result, perhaps, of her struggle with her attacker.

" _Darling_ ," Cora whispered, her voice catching on the word, "are you sure you're not hurt?"

"No," Charlotte murmured, her voice muffled. "I'm not hurt."

"It sounds as though you were very brave—you and your sister both."

She felt Charlotte's grip on her tighten, and she kissed the top of her daughter's head, suspecting it was all very near to pouring out. "I was so scared," Charlotte said after a moment, her voice strained. "He just…I…I didn't…"

She could hear her forcing down a sob between each utterance, and she gently shushed her. "Shh, darling. Just let go."

Had it not been for her accident, Cora imagined she would long ago have adopted the traditional stiff upper lip of the English aristocracy and raised her girls the same way. But somewhere in the midst of the tears of pain and frustration and grief that she'd shed so often as a young woman—all while Robert told her he'd never known anyone so strong—she had given up the idea that holding back emotion had any correlation with strength, and she did not encourage Charlotte and Eleanor to restrain their tears any more than she had restrained hers.

And finally, at Cora's soft coaxing, they came, harsh and loud and unyielding, Charlotte shaking in her arms as Cora held her and kissed her and promised her that she was quite safe now. When her storm of weeping had passed, Charlotte pulled back to look at her mother, her eyes red and swollen in a way that made Cora's chest ache. Cora was reaching up to dry her tears with her thumb—she wished she could get up and fetch a handkerchief from her dressing table—when Charlotte said the last words she'd been expecting to hear.

"Mama?" she asked softly. "Are you angry with me?"

"No! No, of course I'm not angry! None of this was your fault, darling—you know that!" Did Charlotte know that? Cora's heart broke a second time at the thought that Charlotte was berating herself for her terror tonight.

Charlotte shook her head, and a dry sob escaped from her throat. "I flirted with him—you saw me flirt with him—I–I gave him the impression that—"

"Shh." Cora laid her finger on her daughter's lips. "You've done nothing wrong. Nothing many young girls wouldn't do when a handsome stranger appears. None of it gave him the right to show up in your bedroom. _Nothing_ would have given him the right to force himself on you."

"But am I…am I ruined anyway, Mama?"

The suggestion made Cora's stomach turn over, but she forced herself to consider the question. The awful, unfair truth of it was that if the story were _out_ , then yes, Charlotte was quite ruined, but…

"No," she said slowly. "No, you won't be ruined. Nothing has happened, and none of it will ever leave this house. Carson will make that very clear to the staff involved."

Charlotte was silent for a few minutes as Cora continued running her fingers through her hair. "Can I stay with you?" she asked at last. "Papa said he would sleep in his dressing room."

Cora nodded, musing, not for the first time, how odd it was to think that both her daughters found some sense of safety in the presence of a woman who could not even stand, and how happy it had always made her. "Of course you can, darling." Charlotte sat up and moved to extinguish the lamp, but Cora reached for her arm. "Let me brush your hair before you lie back down. It'll be a rat's nest in the morning otherwise."

Charlotte gave her a bemused smile and retrieved a hairbrush and a ribbon from the dressing table, then helped Cora into a seated position, propping her against the pillows before sitting down on the bed herself.

As a young mother, Cora had become very fond of brushing her little girls' hair—a duty, along with many others, that would have fallen to the nanny or governess had Cora's lessened social obligations not given her so much more time for motherhood—and had been sad to see them grow old enough to require the services of a housemaid to dress. She welcomed any chance to look after either of them again, and Charlotte, who had closed her eyes as her mother worked, did not seem to mind it either.

Charlotte had long, full, thick blonde hair with a natural bounce to it that took easily to the curls Anna sometimes added, and Cora suspected that it was the envy of many of the young women in Yorkshire. She savored its silky feel against her hands, wondering, as she often did, where Charlotte had gotten it. Both of her daughters were beautiful, with, of course, no resemblance to her or to each other, and she often wondered who their natural mothers had been and what they might have looked like. She could not bring herself to judge either woman for what she assumed must have been out-of-wedlock pregnancies, or for leaving their babies at the Foundling Home; rather, she could not have been more grateful to them for what they had given her, and she had grieved for them both and for what circumstances had forced them to give up.

"I'm not sure it much matters if I'm ruined," Charlotte said suddenly. "I don't think I'm likely to marry."

It was, of course, what Cora privately feared, and she considered her answer a moment before answering. "Why do you say that?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

Charlotte shrugged. "Who would marry me?"

"I would think that—"

"Mama, I have no bloodline. I'm not _really_ an earl's daughter, not in any way that matters to the world. I can't imagine anyone is dying for their son to marry a foundling."

Her heart ached sharply to hear her daughter call herself that. "Charlotte, you're not—"

"I know, Mama. I know you're my mother and Papa is my father; I don't feel otherwise. But no other great family cares how much you love me or what papers you've had drawn up."

Cora could not deny it, and she had the sense that Charlotte had given this all just as much thought as she had. "Do you wish to marry?" she asked.

"I'm not sure it really matters to me," Charlotte said after a moment's silence. "I don't _need_ a husband—I'll have a house and a fortune. And there's no one who…that is, if I fell in love with someone, I suppose I might feel differently, but…no, I don't know that I wish to marry."

The answer did not surprise her: Charlotte was not Eleanor, who had fallen for every man who had crossed her path. She might flirt briefly, as she had with Pamuk, but Cora had never known her to take any serious interest in a man. It didn't help the situation, in Cora's opinion: if Charlotte would look twice at a younger son, perhaps he might fall for her and be willing to marry her in spite of her birth. And while Charlotte was correct that she didn't need a husband for economic reasons, Cora was not sure she was prepared for a life alone, with no social position at all after the deaths of her parents.

"Do you wish to be alone, then?" Cora asked gently.

"No, but…I'm not sure I really think of it that way. I'd like to take in a child, the way you did."

"That would be lovely, but you can't adopt if you're not married."

"I could take a ward, though, couldn't I?"

"You could," Cora said slowly, "although I imagine it might be rather difficult as a single woman. And I would think that people would…talk. It would be easier if you were married."

"I didn't say it wouldn't be," Charlotte said, irritation creeping into her voice. "And I didn't say it wouldn't be preferable. I just said I wouldn't mind if I didn't have a husband, and that I can't imagine how I would."

"I know, darling," Cora soothed. She held her breath for a moment and then decided that there would be no better time. "What about…Matthew?"

"Cousin Matthew? Matthew Crawley?"

Cora winced at the disbelief in her daughter's tone. "Yes, him." He had seemed perfect for Charlotte since she'd first heard his name. As the son of a middle-class doctor, he had no business turning up his nose at an earl's acknowledged daughter, regardless of her birth, and they would be as well-matched as she and Robert had been: he would provide Charlotte with a title; she would provide him with an estate and a fortune. And he had seemed kind and decent and hard-working, the sort of man she wanted for her daughter, and the sort who would love his wife.

Yet Charlotte seemed determined to despise him.

"Surely you're not serious. I could never marry him."

"I'm quite serious. Whatever do you imagine is wrong with him? You haven't liked him since he arrived, and your father and I have seen nothing objectionable in him."

"He's so… _arrogant_. Very full of himself."

"I've never felt that about him—"

"That's because you've never heard the way he speaks in private."

"I'm sorry?"

"He…never mind."

"What did you overhear him saying, darling?" Cora pressed, not sure whether to think Charlotte had misunderstood through eavesdropping or whether there was more to Matthew than met the eye.

"Nothing important, Mama. I just…don't think he's as lovely as you do."

Cora wanted to tell her to promise to think on it, but she held her tongue, believing that Charlotte did not need to be lectured tonight. "There we are," she said, tying off the finished braid and passing her daughter the brush.

Charlotte helped her lie back down with a kiss, returned the brush to the dressing table, and extinguished the lamp.


	9. Chapter 8

AN: I know I said in my note to To See Wonderful Things that I wouldn't be updating this week, but I managed to pull it off at the last minute. :-) My apologies for how short this chapter is, but I did manage to get my outline straightened out, so we are now full steam ahead for the future!

* * *

"Mama," Charlotte began, stepping into the drawing room the next morning, "have you heard—"

But the rest of her inquiry about where Pamuk and Evelyn Napier had gone to froze on her lips at the sight of her sister. Eleanor was perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning into Cora's arms with her head on her shoulder, the wheelchair drawn close to the couch.

"I am sorry," Charlotte said quickly, sensing from their silence and Eleanor's red eyes that she'd intruded on something private. But before she could turn to go, Eleanor shook her head wordlessly, stood, and scurried from the room.

"Eleanor…" Cora called. She leaned forward as though to stand, her eyes staring after her younger daughter, and Charlotte easily read her hunger to follow.* But it was clear the other girl had no intention of returning, and after a moment, Cora sighed and settled back against her chair. Charlotte shifted awkwardly. Her instinct was to offer to push her mother where she wanted to go, but clearly, her sister did not wish for her to be privy to whatever conversation she had interrupted.

Cora gave Charlotte a thin smile that did not quite meet her eyes. "What is it, darling?"

Charlotte shook her head. "Nothing much. What's wrong with Eleanor?" She half-expected her mother to refuse to tell her, but as soon as Cora spoke, it was clear the news could not have remained a secret anyway.

"It's Evelyn," Cora said with a sigh. "He apparently came back to the house this morning and broke with her."

"What?" Charlotte had not thought she could be any more shaken than she had been by the previous night's events, but this was the last news she had expected to hear. "But they are engaged!"

"Not anymore, I'm afraid. It sounds as though it's quite final, and Evelyn is quite sure."

"Is this…because of me?" she squeaked. "And Mr. Pamuk?"

"It's not because of _you_ , but it _is_ because of Mr. Pamuk. Evelyn is ashamed—quite rightly, I think—of having brought him into his fiancée's home, and he does not think it is honorable to marry your sister after—"

" _I_ don't think it is honorable to break his promise to marry her!"

Her mother sighed again. "Charlotte, your father—"

"Did Papa make Evelyn do this?" In truth she could not imagine Robert being so cruel, but nor could she believe that Evelyn had so easily abandoned her sister.

"No, he did not make him—he didn't have to. Evelyn spoke to Papa before he spoke to Eleanor, but I don't think there was any disagreement between them about what he ought to do."

"So Papa _approves_ this? Papa told him it was right?"

"None of it's _right_ , Charlotte, but your father feels that his poor judgement makes him a questionable match for Eleanor."

"And who _does_ he think would be a good match? Or is she in my position now, but without the fortune?"

"Charlotte, this is not the time to find your sister another suitor. It—"

"And what do _you_ think? Do you think Evelyn should leave Eleanor, all because he was assigned to look after a foreign diplomat who was no better than a common criminal? Is that his fault, or Eleanor's? Do you think _she_ should be the one to pay for it?"

"Of _course_ not, but—"

"Where is Evelyn now?"

"I imagine he's on his way up to London—he left here for the train station."

"So he'll be at Branksome House?"

"Charlotte, tell me you don't intend—"

"I _do_ intend. But I'll be seeing Papa first."

 _"Charlotte—"_

But she was already out the door.

* * *

"Papa, I think it's very unfair of you to send Evelyn away," Charlotte said, stepping into the library without so much as a _hello_. Robert was seated on the red couch facing her.

He froze, as though surprised at both her presence and her words, and then sighed. "I haven't _sent him away_ , but this isn't the time—"

"He broke his engagement with Eleanor after he talked with you. Mama certainly made it sound as though you encouraged him." She knew that was not quite how her mother had portrayed it, but her father certainly hadn't _dis_ couraged Evelyn.

"I told him I agreed. I told him I was… _disappointed_ in his judgment last night, in letting—" Robert broke his sentence suddenly and sighed again. "But never mind about any of that. His mind was made up before he arrived. But I can't discuss this now—"

"We must discuss it now," Charlotte insisted. "I intend to see it put to rights before the day is out. Eleanor's upset, and there's no reason to let this drag on. I'm going to London to see Evelyn; he can hardly continue with his bizarre notions of honor when _I'm_ the injured party and I'm telling him to go on and marry her. I don't see how _you_ can continue this way. _I_ was the one Mr. Pamuk assaulted, and I don't want Eleanor and Evelyn to have to pay for that!"

Robert winced at her words just as Charlotte heard a choking sound from the couch opposite him, and she realized with horror that they were not alone. And then a blond head rose from the couch.

"Matthew," she breathed.

"I'll excuse myself," he said, his face stark white with shock. "You and Cousin Robert appear to need a bit of privacy."

* * *

*Reminder from The Broken Places that Cora can't move her own wheelchair—rather incredibly, old wheelchairs weren't designed for that. The assumption was that if you were wealthy enough to afford a wheelchair, you were wealthy enough to afford servants, and what wealthy person would have wanted to do the work of pushing her own chair? (Although I imagine that probably a lot of disabled people would have preferred to move on their own rather than have to wait for a servant!) Historically, wheelchairs that could be propelled by the user were being built and sold a few years before Far More takes place (although they would not have been available during the era of The Broken Places). However, I've decided to push that back a bit for story purposes that will be evident soon.


	10. Chapter 9

AN: So I know we're on a bit of a Cobert hiatus at the moment in this story...I promise to bring them back in next week's chapter!

* * *

Matthew was quite scarce from Downton in the next few weeks, and Charlotte suspected it was largely due to his embarrassment at what he'd inadvertently overheard. She was desperate to speak to him, although not quite desperate enough to work up the courage to go and visit him—it would be easier, she reasoned, if she were forced into his company and thus had no escape from speaking to him.

Her father had assured her that he had told Matthew that Pamuk had been unsuccessful and that the story was the strictest of secrets, and she did trust Matthew—for what good did it do him to repeat a tale that reflected so badly on his own relatives?—but she could not help wanting to assure herself, by looking him in the eye, that he believed her virtue had been preserved.

It wasn't that it mattered, really, she told herself. It _didn't_ matter what Matthew thought. It was merely the embarrassment of what a distant male relative—so distant as to not really _be_ a relative, in her book—might be thinking. Because Charlotte did not _want_ Matthew. Not in that way, regardless of what her mother said.

Admittedly, he had made no apparent grab for her inheritance in the six months he had lived in Yorkshire. Perhaps he'd even given up the idea, but she knew she ought not to forgive him for entertaining such a scheme in the first place.

At last she learned that it had not been her that Matthew had been avoiding—rather, he had not been in the area, having taken a few weeks to travel back to Manchester. A telegram soon arrived at Downton announcing his return, and he was invited to luncheon the next day, after which Charlotte asked if he would walk outside with her.

"I wanted to be sure you knew," she said with no preamble, once they were out on the lawn, "that there was nothing between Mr. Pamuk and myself." She cursed the burning in her cheeks that accompanied her words, knowing she must be bright pink with embarrassment.

"I know that," he said quickly. "Your father explained."

"He just…appeared in my room. But nothing…nothing _happened_."

"Yes, I know. Cousin Robert was very clear."

She noted that he seemed no more inclined to look in her eyes than she was to look in his, and somehow, the mutual humiliation was a comfort, and they walked in silence for a few minutes.

"I hope you are all right now," he said at last, a sincere ring to his voice that made it sound like much more than a pleasantry.

"I am, thank you." She'd finally ceased waking in a cold sweat, sensing she wasn't alone. "And I was then."

"Your main concern," he said, suddenly glancing at her, "seemed to be your sister."

Charlotte held his gaze. "It seemed so very unfair. Mr. Napier had very little to do with it, and she had even less."

"Of course not. I understand the wedding is back on?"

"It is," she said, laughing at the memory of Evelyn's shock at her arrival in his home. "She's to be married in June."

"I'm glad for it. He seems a good man."

"Yes. Yes, he is." As boring as Charlotte had always thought him, she could find no fault in Evelyn's honor or kindness. He would be a good husband to Eleanor, and she imagined her sister's own fancifulness would easily cover his dullness.

They fell into silence again, but a comfortable one this time. She was almost surprised at how pleased she was to have their cousin back in Downton—he had been unfailingly polite for months now, and some days she could almost forget how rude and irritating he had been at first. Almost.

"You seem very fond of your family," Matthew observed.

"I am…but I suppose it's natural, when we've been so isolated."

"Isolated? Is Downton so very far from other estates?"

"No, but…" She sighed, fingering her parasol. "It's rather odd to be an adopted aristocrat. It wasn't so much that Eleanor and I were treated unkindly as it was that we were something of…a curiosity. My mother was too, of course. I don't mean to imply we never went anywhere and never saw anyone. Just that…I don't know that I had as many close friends as most ladies might."

He was quiet for a moment. "I didn't necessarily mean that you were close to your family, though of course you are. I meant…you seem so very protective."

"Of my mother? Of course I'm protective of my mother."

"Because she is crippled?"

"Yes, and everything that goes with it. I _hate_ it for her. It's–it's so _unfair_." The words poured out of her heatedly, but she was finding it very easy to talk to Matthew. She'd been finding it that way for awhile now, in fact. "I can't stand that she can't walk, and I can't imagine how that would be. And her spine hurts her, and I hate that, too."

"Does it?" he asked, surprise on his face.

"Yes…more than she lets on to us, I think."

"Charlotte," he said after a pause, "may I ask you something about your mother?"

"Yes." She blushed, his caution a reminder of his first night at Downton. She'd known him long enough, and seen him interact with Cora enough, to know that he'd meant no harm in his initial confusion.

"When did you…that is, if she was injured before you were born, you've only ever known your mother in a wheelchair." She nodded, and he continued. "When did you first realize something was wrong? Do you remember realizing that this wasn't normal?"

It was not a question she had ever been asked before, but the moment was so burned into her mind from its repeated reviews throughout her childhood that she did not hesitate in her answer. "I was three," she said. "I don't think there was a sudden moment when I realized she couldn't walk, and that every other person could. I think I just slowly…started to wonder why she never stood up. And I asked her one afternoon why she didn't walk. I was sitting on her lap, having a biscuit." Charlotte smiled at the memory.

"What did she tell you?"

"The truth, of course. In simple terms—that she'd fallen off a horse a few years earlier and broken her back, and that her legs didn't work anymore."

"And is that when you started to feel protective?"  
"I don't think so," she said, laughing softly. "I think I was too young to think that way then—although my parents tell me that even before that conversation, before I could talk, I was fond of toddling over and handing toys to her, as if I thought she might want them but not be able to get them for herself."

He laughed with her this time. "That's funny, but it does sound rather sweet," he said.

She smiled. "I'm told I was always eager to help. But I think I was older before I started to feel so… _fierce_ about her. I think it went back to that first conversation, though, because I played it over so often in my head as a child that I started to notice things that hadn't quite been meaningful to a three-year-old."

Charlotte paused, finding the thought a painful one on Cora's behalf, but Matthew looked at her curiously, and she went on. "I remembered that she asked me—quite sincerely—if I'd prefer to have a mother who could run and play with me. It struck me as nonsense at the time, because I couldn't imagine ever wanting anyone but her, and I said so. But I realized as I got older—what a question to ask your child! What had she been feeling, wondering if her little girl wanted a different mother? Heavens, what a thing for a woman to think! I couldn't imagine how she'd come to feel so… _unwanted_ , and so incapable, but the more I watched the way people treated her, the more I understood. And it made me _so angry_ …and it's worse because she's so _kind_. All of this—it's only made her kind."

"She is that," he agreed quietly. "She has every right to be very bitter—I imagine most of us would be. I imagine _I_ would be."

"I don't think you would," she heard herself argue before she could stop herself, and he gave her an odd look, as though surprised at the semi-compliment. "That is…" She could not find a way to make the statement into anything else. "You don't seem like you'd be the type to be much given to bitterness."

"You're much the same with your sister as you are with your mother," he said suddenly, and she sensed an awkwardness at words of praise from her.

"Am I? I don't think I am…I don't think of it quite that way. I haven't any _reason_ to be."

Matthew raised his eyebrows. "But you—her engagement—"

Charlotte shrugged. "That just struck me as so unfair. I wasn't trying to protect her—I just wanted to make it right, because I thought I could."

"And you can't stand what's unfair because of your mother—which is really what you so desperately want to make right."

"Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, Mr. Crawley?" she asked, but she could not keep her smile out of her voice.

"Oh, I doubt that you're that easily understood, Miss Charlotte."

There was a warmth in his words that she had not heard before, and she looked down at the grass, not quite sure what to say.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: All you Cobert shippers have been very patient while we dealt with Charlotte and Pamuk and Matthew and Eleanor and Evelyn, and I appreciate that, so here's 4,000+ words of mostly Cobert, including both fluff and terrific fun. The latter is thanks to latifraise—we were chatting on Facebook, and she asked if I would write a terrific fun scene in the setting I've used here, and it wasn't in my outline, but I thought WHY NOT. So thank her if you enjoy the ending of this chapter. ;-)

* * *

"My lady," Carson said, stepping into the drawing room, "Mr. Crawley is here to see you."

"To see me?" Cora asked. It was not unusual for Matthew to visit with Robert, but she did not think he had ever come to see her alone. And with her husband in the village this afternoon and her daughters spending a week in London for fittings of Eleanor's wedding dress, Cora was the sole Crawley at home.

"So he says," Carson said in a tone that conveyed mild disapproval, although Cora could not think why the butler would mind a visit from her husband's cousin. "Shall I send him in?"

Cora nodded. "Yes, please, Carson." She sighed as he left—she'd been tired lately and had been planning to go up for a nap soon before Robert came back, but apparently that wouldn't be happening.

A moment later, the butler returned with the younger man in tow, announced Mr. Crawley, and left with a polite bow.

"Matthew," she said, offering him a nod from her chair. She didn't think she'd ever shake the awkward feeling at not being able to stand for an introduction. "Please, sit down."

"Cousin Cora," he said warmly, taking a seat on the sofa near her. "I've wanted to see you since I returned from Manchester."

A nice sentiment, but Matthew had seen them all when he'd been at Downton for lunch two days earlier. "I'm sorry the others are out," she said with a bemused smile. "Robert should be home soon, but Charlotte and Eleanor have gone to London."

"Yes, I know," he said. "That's why I've come now. You see, I've…brought you something, and I'd rather the others—that is, I'd rather _Charlotte_ didn't know it came from me."

It all sounded so preposterous that Cora could not help but laugh. "And what is this secret present, Matthew?"

But Matthew shook his head. "I'm quite serious. Could you promise to me that you won't tell Charlotte where you've gotten this?"

She simply could not imagine why on earth she would need to keep the origin of a gift from Matthew a secret. "I—"

"It's only…" Heavens, was her young cousin _blushing_? "I wouldn't want Charlotte to think I was…trying to buy her affection, so to speak. Nor would I _want_ to manipulate her. I'd like to win her on my own merits."

A more surprising speech could not have come out of Matthew Crawley's mouth. He wanted to win Charlotte? Of course, "Matthew and Charlotte" had long been Cora's hope, but it had always been based on the idea that they would see that such a match was to their mutual benefit, rather as she and Robert had. Matthew's growing so attracted to Charlotte—with no signal on her part, as far as Cora knew—had never been the plan, and Cora was equal parts shocked and ashamed to be so. Of course her daughter could attract a suitor's good opinion.

"So if you could say that this was something Cousin Robert found and purchased, I would be obliged," Matthew went on.

"I…why yes, yes, of course. If you'd prefer." Far be it from her to interfere with Matthew's wooing of her eldest!

He smiled. "Excellent. You see, I went to Manchester primarily to see a friend of my father's—a doctor who specialized in severe injuries to the legs. I know it's not your legs that are injured, but I thought…that is, it's seemed to me that it must be immensely frustrating not to be able to move your chair yourself, to have to wait to be pushed everywhere. I couldn't help but think that surely there would be a way to construct a wheelchair that could be pushed by its occupant, and I thought that if anyone I knew would be an expert on the subject, it would be this man. My inquiries were more fruitful than I expected—he didn't just know how it might be done; he told me such chairs have recently begun to be produced in the larger cities. I took the liberty of asking him to order one for you, and I've brought it back with me. I hope you don't mind."

Cora's mouth opened, but no sound came out as she tried to comprehend Matthew's words. She'd be able to… _move_? On her own? Somewhere other than the swimming pool? She touched her fingers to her lips, struggling for the right words.

"Of course, if it isn't something you want—that is, if you prefer—"

"No, no!" She clasped a hand to Matthew's arm. "Of course I want that! It's only—we never thought—that is, I never expected—oh, _of course_ I want to be able to move on my own!" She felt herself smiling so broadly at the thought that it felt as though her face might crack.

Matthew laughed softly—partly, she thought, in relief that he had not misjudged her feelings. "I'll go and get it, then," he said. "It's just outside."

Ah, so Carson had seen it—no wonder he had looked so disapproving! She could only imagine how troubling the very traditional butler would find the idea of the lady of the house having to do any work, even the very welcome work of maneuvering herself around a room.

Matthew returned a moment later, pushing a wicker chair that looked remarkably similar to the one she was already sitting in…except for an extra metal rim that had been added to each wheel, jutting out a bit and with a slightly smaller circumference than the tires.

"You grasp this rim," Matthew said, taking a seat in the chair, "and push it forward." He demonstrated, and she watched as he quickly made his way toward her. "It's not difficult—it's steering around corners that I was told takes a bit of practice," he said as he stood. "Would you like me to transfer you?"

Cora nodded eagerly, anxious to try it and touched at his offer to move her rather than waiting for a footman. "Yes, if you're sure you don't mind."

"I've seen Cousin Robert do it often enough. It doesn't look hard."

Cora held on to Matthew's neck as he slipped his arms beneath her knees and behind her back and lifted her, transferring her swiftly into the new chair. Tentatively, she took hold of the wheels' rims and pushed them downward, moving herself forward her first few inches.

"It works!" she exclaimed. Of course it worked, but she was not sure she had fully believed in the possibility until she'd tried it.

And now there would be no more waiting for a footman, no more always having to sit by the bell pull when left alone in a room, no more asking Robert or the girls to please push her somewhere, no more being so constantly and utterly dependent for even the slightest of movements. She was… _free_.

"Matthew, I…" She couldn't quite find the words to thank him, but her throat was suddenly too clogged to have uttered them anyway, and if the smile on his face were any indication, he understood. Cora reached for his arm and pulled it towards her, bringing his hand to her lips for a grateful kiss. "Thank you," she whispered. "I don't…oh, _thank you_."

"My lord, Mr. Crawley is in the drawing room with her ladyship," she heard Carson say from the front hall, and Robert responded distantly that he would go in to see him.

"Oh, Robert's home!" she exclaimed, delighted at the thought of showing him the new invention.

"You should go out to him," Matthew said with a smile. "Surprise him. Here, let me help you turn." He took hold of the handles on the chair's back and turned Cora toward the door. "As I said, this bit may take some practice." But she needed no practice to push the wheels quickly forward, and she pushed herself out into the hall, where Robert was removing his coat and passing it to Carson.

"Robert!" she called out. "Look what Matthew's found!"

He turned at her voice and stared, silently watching her roll in his direction as though he could not quite understand what he was seeing. "Cora…is that…are you…"

"I can push it myself," she said, beginning to laugh with the joy of it. "It's a new kind of wheelchair, and I–I can push it _myself_." A small sob forced its way up her throat, and suddenly her laughter slid into tears at the thought of everything wonderful that this meant. "I–I haven't got to wait to be _pushed_ anymore," she managed to say, as though it weren't obvious.

"Oh, my darling." Robert had hurried to meet her and was now kneeling down so that he could take her into his arms. "How wonderful for you." His own voice wavered as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "How _wonderful_ … Shh," he murmured, stroking his hand up and down her back as she cried. "You're all right, you're all right."

Of course she was all right. She was more than all right. But all she could do at the moment was to cling to Robert as the emotions poured out.

* * *

"Are you sure this is healthy for you?" Robert asked five nights later as his hands gently kneaded her shoulders.

"Yes!" She was quite used to Robert's nervousness around any new technology, and she was half afraid it would combine with his protectiveness to lead him to tell her not to push herself. "Clarkson said it was perfectly fine; my muscles just aren't used to it yet."

Cora flinched as his right thumb hit another tender spot. She _was_ quite sore, a problem she knew she'd made worse by days of ignoring the ache growing in her shoulders in her eagerness to run about the house for the first time in decades.

"Sorry," he said immediately, easing off the pressure. "I'm trying not to hurt you, but you're so knotted."

"I know…but you are helping. I know you've got to press to get rid of them," she said, giving him a small smile in the mirror of her dressing table. It quickly turned to a wince as she felt him slowly digging back into the knot he'd just discovered.

"Just breathe, darling," he said quietly. "Take some deep breaths, and try to relax your shoulder."

She did as he said, sighing a moment later as she felt the muscle loosen. "There now," he said, bending to press a kiss to the place where he'd been working. "That's better."

"It's probably an odd thing to say, but I don't much mind hurting like this," she told him as his hands moved elsewhere on her shoulders. "It almost feels good to be sore from _doing_ something, from something besides sitting in my chair all day, from _movement_."

"Yes, but I do think you've overdone it a bit—"

"Please, Robert. I can't go back, not now that I've—"

"No, of course not." He shook his head. "I don't want you to—I'm _thrilled_ to see you moving around on your own, and I know how happy it must make you. But I also know that while Clarkson did say it wouldn't hurt you, he also thought you ought to try to build up to it and get your muscles used to the work slowly."

"I'm trying to build up to it—"

"Cora, you move around Downton more in a day than I move all week. I think now is the first time you've been still all day."

She laughed, knowing it was too true for protest. In her eager excitement, she'd rolled herself up and down the corridors so often this week that she was surprised she had not worn tracks in the carpet.

"And I know you're happy," he went on, "but I think it would be less painful for you if you took it a bit more slowly. I think you should take it easy tomorrow—let me and William and Thomas push you some."

Cora nodded. "All right, but I'll want to show the girls how it works when they get home." Charlotte and Eleanor would be returning to Downton on tomorrow's afternoon train.

"Oh, of course! Heavens, I'd rather forgotten about that."

The sentence made her realize she'd forgotten something as well. "Oh, about the girls—I'd meant to tell you…you haven't mentioned the new chair to them, have you?" Cora held her breath, hoping he had not written and mentioned Matthew's gift.

"No, I haven't—I thought you'd want to surprise them in person."

"I do, but most importantly…Matthew doesn't want Charlotte to know he's the one who gave it to me, and of course if we don't want Charlotte to know, we'd better not tell Eleanor."

"Why on earth not? It was kind and generous—I wish he'd let me pay him; I'm sure it was expensive."

"I think that's why he doesn't want Charlotte to know. He knows it was kind and generous, and he doesn't that to be what wins her, nor does he want her to feel he's trying to manipulate her or buy her affections."

Robert's hands froze on her shoulders for a moment. "Her affections?"

"Yes. It appears that Matthew's falling for Charlotte."

She felt his thumbs begin to rub small circles again, but it was another moment before he spoke. "I thought Charlotte didn't like Matthew."

"Well, she didn't—"

"But now she does?"

"I'm not sure. She spoke harshly of him just last month, but…I don't know that she really dislikes him, at least not as she used to. They seem almost easy together at times. I'm not sure I'd call it increased affection, though, as much as decreased hostility."

Robert laughed. "It seems safe to say he must not think her hostile, not if he thinks he can woo her. Did you ever find out what about him she took such offense to originally?"

"No, she wouldn't ever say more than that she thought him insufferably arrogant—which never quite rang true with Matthew as I've known him. More likely she got a wrong first impression and couldn't let go of it. You know how she can be when she convinces herself of something."

"Yes, I'm still wondering if it was wise to send her to London to help Eleanor with her dress. I can't help but imagine that Eleanor's going to be coming home with something she does not like and does not want because Charlotte decreed it. I wonder if we ought to have sent Mama instead."

"Because we all know your mother has no strong opinions, and would never push anything on anybody." She met Robert's eyes in the mirror, and they shared a smile. "Your sister's with them. It's not as though they're shopping alone."

"Don't remind me. I don't need visions of myself taking her down the aisle while she's in a French cancan dress, or whatever else has struck Rosamund's fancy lately."

Cora giggled, and they fell silent. She let her eyes drift close as he continued easing the ache out of her shoulders, feeling the deep weariness that had been with her for days slipping over her. She blamed it mostly on the sudden increase in her physical exertion…but hadn't she already been a bit tired the day Matthew brought the chair? It didn't matter now…a few moments' of silence in the midst of a soothing massage left her too exhausted to form complete thoughts.

"Cora?"

She blinked, jerking her head up as she realized she'd nodded off. "I'm sorry, Robert. I don't know what came over me—I've been so tired lately."

He chuckled. "You certainly do need to take it easy tomorrow. But come, darling. Let's get you to bed." Robert bent and kissed her softly, then lifted her. She nestled into his chest, savoring the short trip and breathing in his scent.

And wanting him, desperately. Her blood was suddenly hot in her veins as he pressed her against his body, and she wanted to make love nearly as badly as she wanted to sleep. The suddenness and urgency of her own desire confused her, and she forced herself to swallow it. Not now. Not tonight. She was too tired.

"I love you," she whispered, trying to content herself with that.

"And I love you, sweetheart," he said as he settled her on the bed. "How would you like to lie?"

"On my right, I think," she murmured. She'd be able to keep her hands to herself that way. "If you'll hold me from behind."

"Of course, darling." She felt the bed shift as Robert climbed in, and then his arms were around her as he tugged her against him.

Her last thought as she fell asleep was how divine it felt to have him near her.

* * *

"Robert, darling."

Robert looked up from the newspaper he was reading. He was seated next to the pool, half skimming the morning paper and half listening to the sounds of Cora's laps.* She was a perfectly capable swimmer, and so he felt comfortable not having his eyes on her, but he had never warmed to the idea of her swimming alone with no one to help should she have a problem.

She had asked upon waking if he would take her down to the pool so she might stretch her muscles in a less strenuous way that pushing her chair, and he'd readily agreed, thinking this a good idea and knowing that the warm water would soothe any lingering aches in her shoulders.

Cora was now making her way over to the side of the pool, where she took hold of the concrete, resting for a moment.

"Yes, love?"

She grinned. "Come here, please."

He stood and walked to the edge, crouching down in front of her. "Did you want me to help you get out?"

"No, I want you to get in."

He blinked, not sure for a moment that he'd heard correctly. "Cora, I'm not in my bathing costume."

"What would you need that for?" she asked, a seductive smoothness creeping into her voice. "I'd really rather you just kept everything off."

In recent weeks, Cora's desire for intimacy had seemed to increase, a phenomenon that thrilled him. He was not quite sure what the source of it was, although he had not much thought about it—perhaps it was a delayed effect of the change in her body in the last year. Whatever it was, he liked it, but…

"Cora, not here…not now…" _You fool,_ half of his brain said. _What are you refusing her for?_ Yet the thinking part of his mind objected strenuously to the idea of climbing naked into a swimming pool to have sex with his wife. How very undignified…how very unorthodox…how very…

"I think it would be terrifically fun," Cora said, blinking coquettishly.

"I just don't think that we…"

"Fine." She stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout. "If you don't want to, we won't. But can you at least kiss me?"

"Well, that I can certainly do." Cora took hold of his cravat, guiding him closer to her as he leaned over. But as he brushed his lips to hers, he felt her yank sharply down on the fabric, and he lost his balance and tumbled into the water.

"Cora!" He came up sputtering, not sure whether he was shocked, outraged, or amused and suspecting it was some combination of the three. "Whatever did you do that for?"

Cora, of course, was laughing hysterically. "You look like a drowned rat!" she exclaimed.

He had no doubt, as he stood in the pool in his sopping wet suit with water from his hair dripping down his face, that this was an entirely correct assessment. Cora, of course, had dodged him skillfully and had merely a few drops of water on the curls O'Brien had tied back with a scarf.

"And whose fault," he said, "is that?"

"Oh, don't be angry, Robert," she said, still giggling and swimming back over to him. "I just wanted to be near you, and surely you can't be upset about that." As she said this, she draped her arms around his neck, pulling herself close to him.

"Well, no, no. I'm not upset about that," he stammered, feeling his body beginning to react to her obvious desire.

"Good," she murmured, slowly leaving a trail of kisses along his chin. "This wouldn't be any fun at all if you were upset."

He wrapped his own arms around her, caressing her back and enjoying having her close.

"I don't think you ought to wear so many clothes in the pool," she whispered in his ear.

He was inclined to agree with that.

"Set me on the side and let me help you with them."

He lifted her easily—her already-small weight was greatly diminished by the water—onto the side of the pool, where her fingers worked in tandem with his to divest him of his jacket and shirt and tie. She reached downward for his pants, but he stilled her hand—"Let me do that, or you'll have me spending before you're back in the water"—and then pulled off his shoes and socks, wondering fleetingly how he would explain his sodden clothing to Bates later.

"Ah, but you're still dressed. What shall we do about that, my dear?" he asked playfully.

She raised her arms so he could pull the dress of her bathing suit** over her head, and he gasped at the sight of Cora naked to the waist—a familiar sight, but not one that would ever grow old.

"Come here, darling," he murmured, lifting her by the waist and bringing her back into his arms and into the water with a kiss to her cheek.

"I've still got my bloomers on," she said, her voice husky as she entwined her arms around his neck again.

"Oh, but I can get those off while I'm holding you," he said, letting go with one hand and beginning to slide them off. "I've had quite a bit of practice removing your drawers, you know."

"Robert!" She giggled. "That's no way to talk to a lady!"

"A _lady_ would not have dragged her husband into the pool, so I think we're quite in the clear on that count," he said as he removed the garment. He arranged her paralyzed legs so that they wrapped around his waist and then slipped his arms underneath her. This left her sitting directly on his hands, and he groaned at the feeling. "Oh, Cora…"

"Take me, Robert," she said, her voice tight. "I'm ready. Please."

He needed no more encouragement than that to slip inside her. With her in his arms and with her light weight in the water, he was able to guide her body down onto him, helping her into the best position for both of them in a way he couldn't on dry land.

"Robert," she whimpered, her face buried in his neck as she trembled.

"Let go, darling, let go," he murmured, knowing she often held tight to herself, finding it difficult to let the last vestiges of the proper countess go. He found that endearing, but not nearly as endearing as when she threw caution to the wind and cried out in his arms.

He shifted her again, still exploring the range of sensations…and then he knew he'd found something truly wonderful for her as Cora gave a sudden shriek, going rigid in his arms.

"Darling?" he asked, thinking she was reacting to pleasure and not pain, but wanting to be sure.

"There," she choked, her nails digging into his back. _"There!"_

Encouraged by her ecstasy, he pushed in harder, and a low moan escaped from deep in her chest. Then he felt her teeth sink into his shoulder, hurting _wonderfully_. Her body tightened around him—it never failed to amaze him that the muscles in this part of her body could still move—and he reached his own climax shortly after hers.

Afterwards he continued to hold her, her body going limp in his arms, her head on his shoulder as they both caught their breath. "You are wonderful," he whispered as her fingers traced slow patterns over his back. "And I love you."

She kissed his neck.

"Robert, darling," she whispered after a moment. "I think you need to swim with me _much_ more often."

* * *

*In _The Broken Places_ , Cora discovered on a holiday in Scotland that she could swim. That's accurate medically—paraplegia does not prevent you from swimming; you just have to do all the work with your arms. (There are some awesome YouTube videos of this. It's very impressive to me, considering I can't swim even with the use of all four limbs.)

Cora was ecstatic to discover this, because being in the water let her move freely and forget her injury for a bit. Seeing her joy, Robert immediately decided to build an indoor pool at Downton so that she could swim at home year-round.

**Cora's bathing suit would look nothing like the ones we see at the beach today, so don't picture her in a bikini. (Seriously, stop that. Lord Grantham does _not_ appreciate people imagining her ladyship in a bikini.) Googling "1910s bathing costume" gives you a fairly good idea of what she'd be wearing here. Basically, most of the options are a little sleeveless or short-sleeved dress over a pair of bloomers that would come at least to her knees.


	12. Chapter 11

"Good morning, milady."

Cora opened her eyes at the touch of O'Brien's hand on her shoulder, but she hadn't been asleep. As usual, she had awakened at Robert's alarm, but she had not been able to doze back off the way she was used to. Her stomach had been unsettled in the morning in recent weeks—an irritation, more than an ailment, that she could not quite figure the source of. But today it was worse, her vague queasiness crossing the line into nausea, and she'd been lying for the better part of an hour with her eyes closed and her jaw firmly set, praying it would ease soon.

"I'm not sure I'm quite well this morning, O'Brien," she said, looking up at her maid.

O'Brien studied her. "Your eyes don't look well, milady. Are you ill?"

"I'm not sure I'm ill, exactly." And she wasn't. She'd been fighting this strange sensation for too many days—and felt too well otherwise—to call it a simple illness. "I think perhaps I've eaten something that doesn't quite agree with me. Could you fetch me some toast?" The plain bread she was served with her breakfast had helped settle her stomach on all the other mornings.

"Some toast, milady? Are you sure you feel like eating?"

Cora nodded—she was, in fact, hungry, even if her stomach was rolling unpleasantly. "And please, before you go, help me sit up."

O'Brien gave her a skeptical look but murmured, "Of course, milady," and reached under her arms to raise her up in the bed, settling her back against the pillows.

But Cora had not been expecting how much sicker the movement would make her feel. _"Oh,"_ she moaned, clutching her maid's arm and squeezing her eyes shut, hoping it would pass.

"Milady?"

Suddenly, the remains of last night's dinner were pouring forth, onto O'Brien and into Cora's own lap. O'Brien gave a sharp gasp of surprise but recovered quickly, reaching up to make sure her mistress's hair was out of the way.

"Shh, milady," she murmured. "You'll be all right in a moment…there we are."

Gasping for breath, Cora straightened, regarding the mess on the sheets. She was dimly conscious of O'Brien's hand gently rubbing her back. How much had she gotten on her maid? She chanced a glance at her and saw that, while most of it was in her own lap, she'd managed to vomit a decent amount onto the other woman. How _horrible_!

"Are you finished, milady?" O'Brien asked softly.

"Yes, but—oh, O'Brien, I'm ever so sorry! How _awful_ of me!"

"That's quite all right," the maid soothed. "You couldn't very well help it, and this is nothing that can't be washed."

* * *

"She very well _could_ have helped it," O'Brien muttered to Thomas in the courtyard half an hour later. "The _cow_."

"Could she have?" the younger man mused. "I'm not sure how well one can control that sort of thing."

"She knew it was coming," O'Brien snapped. "She'd already said she didn't feel well, and what does she do? Wants me to help her sit up, because of course the crippled bitch can't do a thing on her own. Then I could tell, she knew something was about to happen—and she grabs ahold of me, as though I'm a slop bucket for her to throw up in. And even if she _hadn't_ known, she could have bloody well turned her head once it started!"

Thomas snickered in a way that irritated her greatly. "Either way, I won't deny that seeing you come downstairs wearing her ladyship's vomit was a sight for sore eyes, Miss O'Brien."

"I can see you're not the one who'll be scrubbing the dress…or Lady G's bedsheets, for that matter," she huffed. "Bitch hasn't got a clue what's involved in washing." She sighed. "She's damn lucky her husband pays so well for all the bloody nursing she expects out of a maid."

Thomas inhaled again from his cigarette. "I don't imagine you'd have stayed otherwise."

The maid snorted. "I wouldn't have lasted a day with that cow without the extra money."

* * *

After she'd been sick, Cora had sent O'Brien downstairs to change with a profuse apology, asking her to send Mrs. Hughes and a housemaid in her place. Gwen had taken the dirty linens, and Cora had then managed to convince Mrs. Hughes that she was quite well enough for breakfast—she no longer felt sick, she'd promised, and indeed she felt that food might even help. The housekeeper had skeptically agreed to bring her a tray, and she was now eating it ravenously.

"Cora?" Robert's panicked voice reached her ears just before the door was flung open and he rushed in. "Darling, they said you were ill…" He took in the sight of his wife sitting up in bed, calmly polishing off a stack of toast.

She shook her head. "It was nothing—something I'd eaten, I expect, as I feel perfectly well now."

"You're…are you certain?"

 _"Yes,"_ she said firmly. She did feel fine, and she did not want to be kept in bed all day by an overprotective husband. "Nothing at all is wrong."

And truly, she thought as Mrs. Hughes helped her dress, she didn't think anything was. She was not sure if this morning's incident was connected to the odd queasiness she'd felt recently—which was an annoyance, more than anything—but perhaps something rancid had been served a few nights in a row, and her stomach had finally made its displeasure known? It was nothing she bothered to give much thought to—she had, after all, only been sick once.

But as the days went by, she felt worse and worse more and more often, her increasing nausea combining with a crushing fatigue. Something, Cora was forced to conclude, was very wrong indeed, and she suspected she knew what it was: one of the internal infections Robert and the doctors had been so worried over at the time of her injury. Her condition had finally caught up with her, and there was nothing for it but to wait and see if her body could recover.

She did not tell Robert, going to great lengths to hide her queasiness and her constant longing for rest. She could find no way to say it, no easy way to break his heart. And if she truly was dying, he'd know soon enough.

* * *

"Mama? Are you in your room?"

It was in the midst of one of Cora's afternoon lie-downs while Robert was out on the estate that she heard Charlotte's voice call out, accompanied by a soft knock on her door.

"Yes, sweetheart. Come in."

Charlotte pushed open the door and glanced first to the chaise, as though expecting to find her mother relaxing there, before her eyes fell on Cora in the bed. "Oh…what are you doing in bed?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"Just resting." Cora forced a smile, trying to push her nausea away. "I…had a rather restless night and thought I might lie down for a bit."

"Would you like me to come back?" Charlotte asked quickly. There was a skittishness in her eyes, a darkness that implied she was eager to speak with Cora and equally eager _not_ to.

"No, no." She so rarely felt well these days anyway, and Charlotte's expression made her quite curious. "Go ahead."

"Would you like me to help you sit up?"

"No, that's not necessary. I'm comfortable." _And if you move me,_ she added silently, _I'm likely to vomit all over you._

Charlotte nodded and sat down on Robert's side of the bed, her top teeth worrying her bottom lip. "I would have told you last night," she said after a moment, "only I couldn't get you alone."

Cora raised her hand to brush Charlotte's cheek. "What is it, darling?"

"Matthew and I went out for a walk before dinner last night. While everyone else was having drinks in the drawing room."

"Yes, I saw you leave."

"He started telling me how fond he's grown of Downton, and of all of us…but he's fondest, he said, of me. He said…" Charlotte blushed prettily. "Mama, he said very sweet things."

Cora smiled. "I'm sure he did." Charlotte did not seem to have minded, so perhaps there was hope here.

"And then he asked me to marry him."

"Heavens!" Cora was quite glad she was already lying down, for that announcement would surely have set the room to spinning again. "Charlotte, are you quite serious? Matthew proposed?"

Her daughter nodded.

"And what did you say?"

"I said I didn't know."

"Charlotte!" She was not so much angry as surprised—she could not remember the last time Charlotte had been unsure of anything. "Do you not _want_ to marry him? I'd begun to think you didn't dislike him—" In fact, she'd begun to think Charlotte, who she had watched carefully over the following weeks, was falling in love with Matthew and his attentions.

"I don't. That is, I don't think I do. I think…I think I'm fond of him."

"I think you're more than fond of him, darling," Cora said quietly.

"No. Or maybe. Oh, I don't _know_!" The phrase was not spoken as Cora had often heard Eleanor say it, Eleanor, who delighted in being half in love, giddy with flirtations and vague feelings for anyone who filled a slot on her dance card. It was an agonized cry, as though Charlotte knew that if she could only unlock the answer, she might have the key to the whole world.

Cora reached for her hand, bringing it to her lips, and they were silent for a moment, Charlotte's hand tucked in her mother's.

"Why don't you know?" Cora asked eventually. "Can you say what confuses you?"

Charlotte nodded. "I don't know if _he's_ fond of _me_!"

It was the last thing Cora had expected to hear, but it was revealing in its simplicity. Charlotte did not know her own feelings because she did not know Matthew's. In other words, she did love him, but she was afraid to acknowledge it for fear that it would not be properly returned. It was an all-too-familiar feeling from the early days of Cora's own marriage.

"It's almost odd to think it," Charlotte went on. "When Matthew first arrived, I–I had the impression that he–he wanted my inheritance. But I'd begun to think…I don't know…that I'd misunderstood, that I'd taken him wrong. But now I can't help but wonder… _is_ this all about the money, and is that why he wants me? For my inheritance?"

"So you take Matthew for a fortune hunter?"

"I don't _know_. I don't know how I _could_ know. Did you…did you know Papa wanted your money? How did you know?" Charlotte dropped her eyes, clearly embarrassed to bring up the inauspicious beginning of her parents' marriage, and Cora laughed gently.

"Of course I knew, but that's what all the men wanted from me. That was why I'd come to England—to find a titled fortune hunter. It was a rather different situation."

"So you wouldn't…know if Matthew only wanted my money?"

Cora paused. She did not believe, in her heart of hearts, that Matthew was pursuing Charlotte in an attempt to combine his future title with Downton and its fortune, but she hesitated to swear to it. The strongest piece of evidence for his sincerity, she thought, was his desire not to manipulate Charlotte with the purchase of the wheelchair, and of course she could not share that.

"I don't believe he's a fortune hunter, darling," she said at last. "But I can't prove it. And it's what you feel about it all that matters."

"I know," said Charlotte, sighing deeply. "I know. And I _don't_ know. That's why I told him I couldn't answer yet."

* * *

AN: I hope you enjoyed O'Brien ending up with vomit all over her as much as I enjoyed writing it. ;-) It wasn't my original plan for Cora to get any on her, and then I thought, you know, she really does deserve that...


	13. Chapter 12

"Mama?" Charlotte rapped on Cora's bedroom door, having just taken a message from the gardener. Eleanor's wedding was in three days, and he'd been up at the house to discuss the flowers, but her ladyship had been nowhere to be found. Charlotte had spoken with the man instead, promising to relay his information and his questions. "Mama, are you here?"

"Yes," a sleepy voice called back. "What is it?"

She'd not expected her mother to be _asleep_ in the middle of the day, and the discovery, on top of the other oddities she'd observed recently, alarmed her. She pushed open the door.

"I'm sorry to wake you—I didn't know you were sleeping. Cuthbert's been by."

"Did he need to see me?"

"He'll come back later…are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Cora said quickly…too quickly, in Charlotte's opinion.

"It's not like you to nap in the afternoons."

Cora gave her a smile that did not seem to quite meet her eyes. "It's only the wedding, darling. All the preparations have been tiring. Here, help me sit up and tell me what Cuthbert said."

Charlotte moved to the other side of the bed, sliding an arm beneath Cora's shoulders and slowly beginning to raise her. But before she had moved her very far, her mother drew in her breath sharply, her hand squeezing Charlotte's shoulder hard. Cora's eyes were closed, and she turned her head away, as though she were afraid she might be ill.

"Mama?"

"Lay me back down, please."

Frightened, Charlotte eased her back down onto the pillow and took her hand. "Mama? Are you sick?"

"No, darling." Cora opened her eyes. "Just a dizzy spell…"

"A dizzy spell?" She'd never known her mother to complain of those before.

"Yes, I ought not to have sat up so quickly. I just need to lie down for a few more minutes. Tell me about the flowers."

"No," Charlotte said, surprising herself with her firmness. "Not until you tell me what's wrong with you."

"Darling, there's nothing wrong with me—"

"Yes, there is. You're always up here resting—probably sleeping—and now you've told me you're dizzy, and you were almost ill there, weren't you?"

"Darling, I—"

"Don't lie to me."

 _"Charlotte!"_ Her mother's eyes flashed at her impertinence, but Charlotte merely shook her head, her fear spurring her on.

"I know there's something wrong, Mama. Papa may believe you're only tired because of the new chair, but I don't think so—you've had that for weeks; you've had time to build your strength. And I know you were ill a few weeks ago with O'Brien, and you've almost done it again. Please tell me what's wrong."

In the silence that followed, Charlotte realized how tightly she had gripped Cora's hand and tried to force herself to loosen her hold…but her mother was holding on equally firmly. "Please, Mama," she whispered, the fire going out of her. "I'm scared."

After a moment, Cora said, so quietly Charlotte almost didn't hear, "I have an infection.*"

"Where? What's happened?"

"I'm not sure—it's in my bladder, or my kidneys, or somewhere else internal."

Charlotte tried to ignore the knotting in her stomach, determined that there must be an easy answer. "Have you seen Clarkson? What can he do for it?"

"Nothing. And no, I haven't seen him. There's nothing to be done. Either I'll recover, or I…won't recover."

"Then how do you even know you've got an infection?" Charlotte demanded, seizing on the possibility that Cora might be wrong.

"Because it's…likely. It's normal, if you're paralyzed."

"But you and Papa always said that couldn't happen to you, because—"

"We said it was much less likely, after the operation I had. Not impossible. And I've got symptoms—as you've noticed."

"You're only tired, and you were only dizzy for a moment—"

Cora gave her a sad, pitying smile that somehow frightened Charlotte more than any of her words. "A few minutes ago you were quite sure I was ill."

Charlotte said nothing and stared down at her mother's hand, still entwined with her own.

"There's more to it than fatigue and one dizzy spell, love," Cora went on gently. "I've been nauseous for weeks, and lightheaded at times. And strangely warm on occasion, which I assume must be a fever. I've had odd pains in my stomach, too, and there's…even a bit of swelling. It's not noticeable with my corset—I'm not even sure it's noticeable to anyone else _without_ my corset—but I can feel it. I can't think what else that all might be."

Charlotte couldn't either, and she felt as though she could not breathe. Her throat seemed to be closing in on itself, but she managed to squeak, "Why didn't you _tell_ us?"

"Because I didn't want it to be true…because I didn't know how to say it…because of _this_ , darling."

Charlotte felt her mother reach up to brush her thumb over Charlotte's cheek, and she realized the tears that had been swimming just below the surface had finally slipped out. _"Mama,"_ she gasped, and her voice was so strangled that it sounded strange to her own ears.

"Oh, my baby." Cora stretched out her arms, and Charlotte moved to lie next to her, laying her head on her mother's shoulder and holding on to her tightly as she wept.

"Don't go, please," she heard herself beg desperately, even as she admonished herself that of course there was nothing her mother could do, and useless pleading would only add to her pain.

 _"Darling,"_ Cora breathed, pressing kisses to Charlotte's head. "Darling, we don't know for sure."

Charlotte knew she was the stubborn one, the defiant one, the one who ought to insist on a glimmer of hope. But at the moment she was too frightened at the thought of a life without Cora, and all she could do was cry. Her mother's death had always been something that was supposed to happen when she was old herself, older than Cora was now. After she'd had time to raise her own children. Not now, when she was barely twenty. Certainly not now.

"We also don't know that I can't recover," Cora murmured.

"But you _haven't_ ," Charlotte sobbed. "You _haven't_."

She wanted her mother to argue with her, to tell her that she felt better this week than she had the last, and Cora's silence in response only made her cry harder.

Charlotte was not sure how long it lasted, only that at last, she ran dry of tears, her eyes swollen and her nose blocked. "I want you," she said thickly, propping herself up on her elbow, "to see a doctor." Cora's own eyes were reddened as well, she noted with guilt as she gazed down at her. "Today. I'll run down to the village and fetch him."

But her mother caught her arm, her voice taking on that rare firmness that Charlotte knew could not be ignored. " _No._ I don't want your father or your sister to know before the wedding—there's nothing Clarkson can do today that he can't do next week, and I won't have a cloud hanging over Eleanor's marriage."

Charlotte closed her eyes, feeling her lip begin to tremble again at the thought of the wedding. At the thought of her _own_ wedding, at which she was suddenly sure there would be no mother of the bride.

"Please, darling," she heard her mother say. "I would certainly rather you didn't know now either, and I know I'm asking a great deal for you to keep this hidden for a few days, but… _please_ …for Eleanor's sake. For my sake."

She felt Cora's hand gently cup her cheek, and she nodded.

* * *

*This is just a reminder that this is the pre-antibiotic era, so infections were very dangerous. Either you recovered naturally from them, or they killed you. There was no effective infection treatment.


	14. Chapter 13

The wedding day was bright and sunny, with all of the things that can be perfect and glorious about the English countryside when it isn't pouring rain. Eleanor and Robert rode through the village streets lined with cheering crowds to the local church, where she was married by Reverend Travis to the heir to the viscountancy of Branksome. The wedding was attended by an excellent showing of Yorkshire gentry, but Cora could take no pleasure in the guest list—she was too busy reminding herself to think of nothing but Eleanor and Evelyn, to focus on this day alone, to ignore what she might learn tomorrow from Dr. Clarkson. She tried not to wonder, as Travis prayed for the couple's fertility, if she would live to see Eleanor's first baby; tried not to notice the tearful way Charlotte kept looking at her; tried not to think of Robert's coming grief as he squeezed her hand during the vows.

Of course, she failed utterly in all of this.

The reception afterwards was a smashing success, and soon she and Robert were kissing their youngest daughter goodbye as Eleanor and Evelyn stepped into their carriage, bound for a train to London where they would spend their wedding night before departing for a honeymoon on the continent. Dinner was a quiet, private affair after the guests had left, the family reduced to a threesome. Exhausted from the emotion and excitement of the day, her dread of tomorrow, and the fatigue she could not shake, Cora did not linger in the drawing room and asked Robert to take her up almost immediately. There was a throbbing behind her eyes, too, and she sighed as she rested her head against his shoulder. Headaches were another discouraging symptom that had arisen in the last couple weeks, suggesting to her that her body was losing its fight with the infection.

"Shall I help you tonight, love, or would you rather I rang for O'Brien?" Robert asked as he carried her into her bedroom.

"I'd rather have you, please," she said, not sure if he planned to stay up later than her and wanting his company as long as possible.

"Of course, darling." He set her down in the chair at her dressing table and began to remove the pins in her hair. Her eyes fluttered closed as he worked, but she didn't bother to fight it—Robert, who was never suspicious, had readily accepted her explanation that the stress of the wedding, combined with the changes in her body in the last year, had made her unusually tired, and she had been fortunate to be able to hide most of her other symptoms from him. An optimist who, his mother often said, propped up his optimism with blinders, he was also not given to searching for disturbing information, and thus Cora knew he was highly unlikely to jump to any conclusion that she was seriously unwell.

Her eyes still closed, she gave a tired sigh, feeling a crushing weariness deep in her bones as he began to massage her scalp where the pins had dug in all day.

"You're exhausted," he said gently.

"Yes, but that feels heavenly," she murmured, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. "Don't stop."

"You've got another headache, don't you?" he asked, and she nodded.

He bent and laid a feather-light kiss on her temple, a gesture that made her suddenly want to cry. _Don't,_ she told herself sharply, knowing it would only make her feel worse, and managed to swallow her tears. She concentrated instead on the firm circles his fingers made, the pain in her head slowly fading.

"I wish you'd seen Clarkson earlier and not waited until tomorrow," Robert said. "He might have been able to give you something that would have made you feel better today."

She wasn't sure how to answer, and so she didn't. The reality was that, after she saw Clarkson tomorrow, they were all going to feel a great deal _worse_.

"Let's get you to bed, love," she heard him say softly a few minutes later. He gently brushed her hair and helped her out of her evening clothes and into her nightdress.

"Are you going back downstairs?" she asked as he lifted her.

"No, I'll ring for Bates and then join you. It's been a long day. But don't keep yourself awake waiting for me," he said as he settled her into bed.

Yet Cora did exactly that, determined that she would fall asleep with his arms around her—today of all days, on the day they'd seen the first of their daughters' weddings and on the night before she had to break his heart.

"I'm still awake," she murmured sleepily as she heard him shuffle quietly back into her room. "Don't worry about waking me."

Robert chuckled and climbed into bed next to her. "Well, I'll never protest the chance for a good night kiss," he said, settling his body against hers and kissing her lips gently.

"I thought the wedding was lovely," she told him. "Really lovely. I couldn't have wished for anything better."

"And she's getting a good man," he said. "I've got no complaints about my daughter marrying Evelyn Napier. Other than that I've got some of the most boring evenings of my life ahead of me as I sit and drink port in the dining room with him during their visits."

Cora could not help but giggle. "That will only make you want to join us faster, so I won't complain. He gets that from his father, you know."

"Don't I know it!" he exclaimed, and she laughed again. "But he also has his late mother's kindness," he added thoughtfully.

"Yes, he does." Cora could not hold back a yawn, and Robert kissed her forehead.

"Shh," he said. "You need to get some sleep. We'll talk more about Eleanor and the wedding tomorrow."

 _Yes, tomorrow,_ she thought, her blood running cold. Tomorrow it would all be real—tomorrow she would have a diagnosis, maybe even a timeline, and she would have to tell her husband.

She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the morning, burying her nose in Robert's chest and focusing on his scent.

* * *

"I'll certainly send the urine specimen off to London, my lady, but I'd be surprised if they wrote back with news of infection. There's no sign at all in its appearance, and I must be honest and tell you that your symptoms don't sound like an infection."

Having finished his examination of her, Dr. Clarkson was seated in a chair in her room, Cora stretched out across from him on the chaise in her dressing gown.

"They don't?" She wanted to feel elated, but she was too nervous over what else he might say.

"No, Lady Grantham. They don't." Clarkson paused in a way that worried her immensely, as though he had bad news to deliver and weren't quite sure how to say it.

"But…but I'm still ill? Ill with something else?"

"I don't think you're _ill_ , exactly." He paused again. "Would you permit me to examine your breasts? You haven't got to remove anything."

Cora blushed furiously but nodded, looking away from the doctor as he came to lay his hand on her left breast, cupping it and prodding slightly. She winced at the pressure—in the last few months, she'd developed a tenderness there, not unlike what she was used to feeling in the days before her monthly. In light of everything else, she'd ignored it, assuming the feeling was a byproduct of the cessation of her bleeding.

But Clarkson caught her expression immediately. "Are they painful, your ladyship?" he asked, withdrawing his hand.

"A bit tender…they've been that way for awhile, but I didn't think it was anything more than the change in my body. Does it mean something?"

He didn't answer, instead reaching out to prod her stomach again. He'd examined it earlier when she'd told him of the occasional pains she'd had there, a concerned expression settling onto his face at the time that returned now. Too frightened at his demeanor to question him, Cora silently watched his hand.

"I admit I'm quite surprised," Clarkson said as he returned to his seat. "And I owe you and his lordship the sincerest of apologies. I was aware that, occasionally, middle age can accompany a surge in fertility, but I thought in your case—given that your bleeding had stopped entirely…"

"Doctor," she said softly, her mouth going dry at the implication of his words, "are you…are you suggesting…"

"Yes, Lady Grantham. I think you're with child."

The words rang in her ears as though he had shouted them. Her first instinct was to ask whether he was sure, but it seemed a silly question when she realized that _she_ was sure. She knew, suddenly, that there was another being in her body, that she and Robert had made new life together, and she recognized each of her symptoms as those she had so carefully watched for during the short six months she'd spent as an able-bodied viscountess.

How glad she would have been to hear Clarkson's words then. How eager.

But all Cora could feel now was fear. Fear and regret—fear for her life, for her child's, for her family's grief, and regret that it had been her own foolishness that had brought this on. Her own foolish eagerness, her inability to wait the few more months that Clarkson had urged. Her determination to make a Christmas gift of sex. How foolishly, unspeakably, unforgivably _stupid_.

"Am I going to die?" she whispered, offering a silent apology to her unborn child that its mother should meet the news of its existence with such morbid thoughts. "Is my baby going to die?"

Clarkson sighed. "I can't say, my lady. I would say that is…"

"Likely?" she breathed when he did not finish his sentence. He did not answer, but the grim look on his face told her everything she needed to know.

Cora looked away, trying to gaze out the window but unable to see anything beyond the blur of her unshed tears. She'd suspected, of course, that she was dying, and thus it was not a shock to hear it, even if the cause were a surprise. But to know that her family's suffering would be at her own hand…how Robert would _punish_ himself for this…

"You must not think it's definite," she heard Clarkson say gently, and she turned back to him, trying to focus on the white coat in front of her. He passed her his handkerchief, and she dabbed her eyes clear. "I'm sure that's what you were told when you were first injured, but—"

"Yes, it was."

"And I don't doubt you would never have survived a birth in 1890, because you'll certainly require a caesarean.* But the procedure isn't quite the death sentence it was then—some women are surviving. There have been advances made."

"So it's…it's possible…"

"I don't want to give you false hope, Lady Grantham," Clarkson said, his voice firm but kind. "I will do my absolute best for you, as will any specialist his lordship hires. And it's possible that we might be able to accomplish a successful delivery—it's happening more and more with caesareans. But it remains a very risky procedure, with a very high mortality rate, and you, of course, are already quite frail."

She nodded, hearing what was unsaid just as clearly as what was.

"I also imagine the pregnancy itself will be quite difficult for you. Given your age, and given your condition. I'm not sure I fully expect you to carry to term.**"

She knew, somehow, without having truly considered it, that she had expected to hear that. "Of course." She paused. "How…how far along am I?"

"It's hard to say, especially since you're not truly showing yet. But a good three months, I think." She nodded, idly doing the math. Christmas, she supposed. How darkly ironic.

"Will there be anything else, my lady?" Clarkson asked after a moment's silence. Cora shook her head.

"Would you like me to speak with his lordship? Will he want to speak with me?"

She shook her head again. "No, best leave his lordship to me."

She could not imagine how she would ever tell him.

* * *

*Caesareans have been performed for hundreds—even thousands—of years, but for the vast majority of that time, they weren't a life-saving measure for the mother. Patients nearly always died, so a caesarean was usually only done as an attempt to save the baby once it was already clear that the mother wouldn't survive anyway. Caesareans weren't _always_ fatal—the mortality rate in the U.K. in 1865 was around 85%—but the likelihood of surviving one when Cora was young was still very small. However, the 1890s and early 1900s did see some medical improvements, so by the time of this pregnancy in 1913, survival was a possibility…just not a wonderfully likely one, especially when dealing with someone whose health is already dicey, like Cora's.

Interestingly, Cora does not _have_ to have a c-section. Paralyzed women can actually give birth without assistance—apparently, your muscles will do the pushing for you, even if your brain doesn't tell them to, which is very cool. (Just like, if you're paralyzed from the neck down, your heart will keep beating, because you don't have to _tell_ your heart to beat.) However, with no background research (since he certainly wasn't expecting Cora to be pregnant), and with no precedent of a paraplegic giving birth, I think Clarkson would assume she'd need a c-section (as I did before I started researching it).

**This has been acknowledged before in the Cobert fandom, with other fics that mention how close Robert may have come to losing Cora with her miscarriage in season 1, but I wanted to point out that losing the baby later in the pregnancy, at this point in history, is also very dangerous. So Clarkson isn't saying, "You might have a miscarriage, and then medically everything would be fine," and Cora isn't hearing it that way. It's nearly as much of a threat to her health as the birth would be.


	15. Chapter 14

"But I thought…Cora, didn't you tell me this was impossible?"

After dreading it all afternoon, Cora had finally told Robert about the pregnancy when he'd arrived in her bedroom that evening. He was now seated on the side of her bed on his side, gaping at her, too shocked for the moment to be upset or frightened.

"It wasn't _quite_ impossible, clearly," she said quietly.

"But you—your bleeding—you said you were too old…" he went on, as though any developments that didn't fit the facts as he knew them _must_ be false.

"I was wrong," she squeaked. How she wished he would say _something_ , react in some way other than this confused groping.

"But how…"

"Clarkson says that it's not unheard of for a surge in fertility to accompany this time in a woman's life."

"A surge in fertility?" he exclaimed. "My God, did he not think to _tell_ you that at the time?"

She cringed, hearing horror in his voice for the first time. "He didn't tell me that, exactly—I don't think it's very common. But he did…he did think I was being hasty, and he did tell me that we should wait longer." Cora dropped her eyes in shame, for this was the worst of it: that it was _her_ fault, that _she_ could have prevented this. "He doubted I could get pregnant, but he said it would be safest if I waited at least a full year after my last monthly. But I…I didn't want to wait any longer, and I didn't think there could possibly be a baby at this point, I really didn't. I'm sorry, Robert. I'm so sorry!"

He stood, but he did not come and take her in his arms as she thought he might. _It's a shock,_ she reminded herself as she watched him walk slowly to the window and stare out. _It was a shock to you, too; he needs time to comprehend it as you did._ And for several long minutes, Robert did not speak. Cora held her breath, waiting, she did not know for what.

"What will happen?" he asked eventually, his voice emotionless, his back still to her. "What will happen now?"

Why would he not _react_? "Clarkson says I may not carry to term," she said. "But if I do, I'll need a caesarean."

 _"Christ,"_ he muttered, and she wasn't sure if he was swearing or praying.

"There have been advances made," she told him. "Some women…some women do survive those."

Robert turned to look at her for the first time since he had stood. "Yes, but most of them don't, do they, Cora? Particularly when they're already in delicate health!" His eyes were trained on her sharply, and his tone was almost angry, accusatory. She could not help but shrink back against the pillows, her silence telling him everything he needed to know.

He sighed heavily, raking a hand over his face and through his hair. She was too frightened at his reaction to speak further, and so the silence stretched on between them.

"Can we have this…taken care of?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling. But she knew exactly what he meant, and her blood was running cold at the thought.

Robert shook his head. "I don't mean… _that_. I don't want you to have some macabre… _procedure_ ; I know that's more dangerous than any of the rest of this. But aren't there…potions you can take? Aren't there midwives who would know of such things?"

Yes, she'd heard tales of herbs that could be taken when a baby had just begun to grow, but those were for a first missed cycle, not three months or more in. "It's too late for that," she said, trying to swallow her horror that Robert would suggest such a thing. "But I wouldn't do it even if I were only a week along!"

"Cora, this is your life we're talking about—"

"And this is our baby!" she exclaimed, appalled that he wanted to argue her into ending the life they'd made together. "How–how dare you tell me to hurt it!"

"How dare I? How dare _I_?" Cora stiffened, hearing the anger pulsing through his words. "How dare I try to save your life? How dare I care whether the wife I've nursed for decades lives or dies? How dare _you_ make _me_ out to be the wrong one! It was _you_ who insisted we have intercourse, and it was _me_ who suggested we wait. But _you_ were determined that we would, and so _you_ lied—you _lied_ and told me it was safe!"

She gasped, stung. "I didn't _lie_!"

But he only raised his voice louder at her interjection, heated words pouring from his lips. "Do you know what I think, Cora?" She bit her lip and gave a small shake of her head, frightened at what he might tell her. "I think you're selfish, horribly _selfish_. You're shortsighted and foolish and spoiled and childish and self-serving. _You_ wanted me, and you wanted me immediately, and you couldn't wait another few months!"

Cora had never in her life been shouted at—certainly not by Robert—and her tears were flowing freely now as the storm of his fury broke over her. "I did it for _you_ ," she sobbed, and it was perfectly true. As much as she'd wanted to make love for herself, as much as she'd looked forward to her own pleasure, she had wanted it all the more for _Robert_ , longing to please him with her body. "I did it because I loved you!"

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, and she began to cry harder, feeling his words like a slap. "You didn't do it for me; you weren't thinking of me at all. You were thinking of yourself and what you wanted. Screw the consequences," he shouted, "—the consequences _you_ knew very well! Screw our daughters! And screw me, and everything I've done for you for the past twenty years!"

"I'm sorry!" she wailed. "Robert, I really am sorry!"

But he stalked to the dividing door and slammed it shut behind him.

* * *

AN: This is a shorter-than-usual update, but I really thought this scene should stand on its own. (Sorry for leaving it hanging in such an awful place!) I promise to give you a longer one next week...as well as one that doesn't make you want to throttle Donk.

Also, knowing I had a short chapter this week gave me time to write two updates to The Ways They Said It, so it's not all bad. ;-)


	16. Chapter 15

Robert had been angry with Cora when he'd left her room, and he was angry for some time afterwards, _fuming_ at the chance she had taken. But as he slowly calmed down, he realized that _of course_ she had not believed there was any real chance of getting pregnant. _Of course_ she had acted in good faith that they were safe. And of course she had not done it for selfish reasons. He had never known anyone _less_ selfish than Cora—for heaven's sake, she had recoiled at the thought of saving her own life if it would cost their baby his or hers. No, Cora had made love to him, he knew instinctively, to please him and to show him that she loved him.

And he, in turn, had raised his voice to her. Shouted at her. Called her a selfish liar. Hurt her deeply and made her cry, and all for the crime of carrying his child, at great risk to herself.

Robert felt a burning behind his eyes at the memory of her face as he'd torn into her, and for a moment he thought he might cry himself. It only made him angrier—for Robert was, indeed, still angry. But not at Cora—he had never, he was slowly realizing, truly been angry at _Cora_. It was he himself at whom he was angry: the one who had not protected his wife as he ought, who had selfishly succumbed to his own desires and taken her in spite of his worries, who had let this terrible harm come to her.

For protecting and caring for Cora had long been the central piece of Robert's life. He had never shaken the horror of the knowledge that she had been paralyzed _in his presence_ , that he had not called out in time to warn her away from the too-high fence that her horse had taken at too great a speed, that he had not been close enough to prevent her fall. It was not so much guilt, for he knew rationally that there was nothing he could have done, as it was a deep sense that he _must not_ let any more harm come to her, that he must never again fail to protect his wife.

He still dreamed about her fall sometimes, as he suspected he would tonight. Yet in the years since the accident, the facts in his subconscious had altered. Rarely did he watch Cora be thrown from her horse from a distance, as he had in reality; instead, his dream self would be right alongside of her as she began to tumble, and he would reach out for her, his fingers brushing the edge of her sleeve…but he could never get enough of a grip to catch her, and each time, she'd slip through his fingers like sand.

As she was slipping now. Robert could barely draw breath when he thought of her condition, as he imagined her growing big with the child she could not push from her own body, imagined her lying dead in their bed after a traumatic operation.

And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could do to change any of it. For of course he did not want a black market "doctor" to rip the child from her womb in a procedure just as deadly as anything Clarkson would try months from now. Nor was there still time to easily induce a miscarriage.

Why had he ever suggested that to her? In this circumstance, he thought it no more wrong than telling a doctor who knows he will lose at least one to save the mother and not the child, but of course Cora would never have agreed to it, and of course it would only frighten and upset her. She had always been a mother before anything else.

Robert thought, as he tossed and turned in his own bed, that perhaps he should go to her now and beg forgiveness. But he told himself no—surely, after he had left, Cora had turned from hurt to angry and was rightly furious with him. It was not that he dreaded the lashing he surely deserved—indeed, so angry was he with himself that he welcomed her censure—but surely she was asleep by now, and if he went and woke her, there would be hours of shouting and tears. She needed, he was sure, a good night's rest before she saw him again.

That was the last thing he himself got, of course. Even had he not been tormented by guilt and fear, Robert always found it difficult to sleep without Cora. While he was sure he would have fallen for a healthy Cora just as he'd fallen for a crippled one—indeed, there could be no universe where he did _not_ fall in love with Cora—he could not imagine that they would ever have been quite this close had her legs worked. They would have loved each other, yes, and shared a bed, yes, but they would have had lives apart, and there would have been bits of each other that they did not know.

But it was not that way now. Cora was so dependent on help, and he so loved to be the one to look after her in place of the staff, that she had learned to look to him for nearly everything, and he had tried to meet her every need. She was not just a wife or a lover but an extra limb, and an overnight separation felt like an amputation. For while Cora needed Robert and often worried that she was a burden on him, the truth was that he needed her. Her gentle presence comforted and calmed him, and it soothed his own body to take care of hers.

Robert slept fitfully, reaching out for Cora in his sleep and jerking awake each time his arms met only air and bedsheets. At last, he awoke to his alarm at seven and got up immediately. It was earlier than his wife would generally wake, but he could wait no longer to speak with her, and thus he slipped through the dividing door.

On the other side, he found a sight much more heartbreaking than he'd expected, for Cora's tears had quite clearly not hardened into anger after he'd left, nor had she been comforted by justified fury. No, she appeared to have wept until she'd fallen asleep, her eyes still puffy and swollen, her nose still red, her breath issuing from her mouth as though her head was far too congested to draw air through her nose.

Oh, he should have returned last night! She'd surely been awake when he had first considered it—she must have cried for hours. And by all appearances, she would have eagerly received him, for she was hugging his pillow tightly to her. He'd learned years ago that it had been Cora's habit during the war to hold his pillow while she slept, comforting herself with his scent, and he knew she still did this occasionally if he spent a night or two away in London.

On those nights, though, she was put to bed with it already in her arms. Yet she'd not been able to reach it easily when he'd left last night, and she'd evidently been unwilling to call for O'Brien. She'd thus stretched and twisted toward his side of the bed, a position he feared her spine would regret as soon as she awoke. _Don't let her be hurting,_ he begged whomever might be listening—having caused her physical pain as well, he thought, would be more than he could bear.

As it was, Robert could have happily shot himself. Not only had his treatment of Cora been appalling; he'd then left his crippled, pregnant wife alone to cry herself to sleep. And she—gracious, forgiving creature that she was—had responded not with anger, but with longing for him, wishing that he who had wounded her were still in her arms.

He did not deserve a child with this woman.

Gently, he caressed her shoulder. "Cora? Cora, darling."

She stirred, sleepily blinking her eyes open.

"Cora," he began, his throat closing as he tried to find the right words, his hand still holding her shoulder.

But now she was awake enough to focus, and at the sight of his face, she began to cry again, a fresh sob bubbling up from her chest.

"I'm sorry, Robert," she gasped. "I really am so very sorry!"

"Oh, my darling," he breathed, feeling his chest rip. If only she would shout at him, and tell him how horribly he'd behaved. That he could have borne so much more easily than her apology.

Robert ran his hand over her hair, bringing it to rest on her wet cheek. "Please don't cry anymore, darling," he begged. "And please don't say you're sorry—you have _nothing_ to be sorry for, nothing. I'm the one who's sorry—terribly, _terribly_ sorry."

Cora shook her head. "No," she managed to say. "No, it's all my fault."

God, _no_. He had done this, he had made her feel this way. As though she had done something wrong in having a body that naturally gave life. He felt as though an invisible chorus stood around the room, pointing hundreds of fingers at him, the guilty one who had brought on her tears.

"No, Cora, _no_ ," he said, his own voice low with emotion. "Nothing is your fault, and you have done nothing wrong. I'm so sorry, darling. I'm so very, _very_ sorry for how I treated you last night." But she shook her head again and continued to cry.

"May I pick you up?" he asked. Ordinarily he would have just done it, but he could not shake the sense that he had no right to her now. Yet Cora nodded, and he carefully slipped his arms beneath her shoulders and knees and lifted her, feeling another pang in his heart at the sharp gasp that broke into her sobs as the movement jarred her back. Robert _hated_ the pain she was always in, had prayed many times to suffer it for her, to be allowed to take it into his body even briefly, so that his wife might have a day's peace. And now, he had made it worse.

Cora nestled close to him as she always did when he carried her—how much less painful it would have been to have her hurling vases and alarm clocks at him!—and he sat both of them down in a chair, Cora on his lap like a child. He could feel how stiffly she was holding herself, how she was carefully trying to stretch into a less uncomfortable position for her spine.

"Oh, my darling," he breathed again, but before he could say anything more, she spoke.

"Are you not still angry?" she choked. "Please say you forgive me!"

Had she been furious and wanted to punish him, he did not think she could have found any words that would have caused him more pain.

"Please," he heard himself beg, "no more of your apologies! And please don't ask my forgiveness when I so desperately need _yours_!" His voice was raised again, but in desperation now instead of anger, and at this new volume, it was as though she'd heard him for the first time.

"Wh–what?" she gasped, her sobs halting at her surprise.

"My darling, I treated you terribly last night," he said, cupping her cheek with his hand. "Absolutely terribly. I had no right to speak to you the way I did, no right to shout at you, no right to call you names. You deserved none of that, and I know I hurt you terribly. And I am so, so sorry, my dearest."

"But you were right—I _have_ been selfish," she said, her voice breaking on the last word and her tears beginning anew.

"Oh, my darling," he said again, pulling her close and gently bringing her head to his shoulder, where she buried her face in his neck. "You have _not_ been selfish. I don't think you've ever in your _life_ been selfish." And she hadn't, he knew, thinking of how hard she had pushed her broken body to be able to care for their little daughters herself. How hard she would push herself now. "Please don't tell yourself that. You thought you were sure that everything was safe, and you wanted to love me in the fullest way possible. There is nothing wrong, and nothing selfish, in that."

"And–and you're not angry?" she sniffed.

"No, darling, _no_. I'm not angry. I shouldn't ever have been angry—I don't think I _was_ angry, truly, not at you." Robert held her in silence for a moment, gently stroking her back, listening as her weeping grew quieter. "I was frightened, darling—I still _am_ frightened. That's why I spoke to you the way I did. I'm half out of my mind with fear for you." He tightened his hold on her as his own voice cracked, and he burrowed his nose into her hair, breathing in her scent and determined not to cry, too. He could not lose Cora. He could _not._

"It's not hopeless," she said a moment later, her voice shaky and small. "There may be things we can do. Specialists we can find."

"Every doctor in England who has ever performed a successful caesarean is going to be in your bedroom that day," he said, pressing a fierce kiss to her temple, and she managed a soft laugh that held a hint of her tears.

"I'm glad you're not angry," she whispered. "I didn't think I could do this without you."

This what? Carry a baby? Give birth? Die? He was too afraid to ask.

"You haven't got to do anything without me, sweetheart," he said, kissing her again. "And I am so sorry for how I acted last night. I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"I forgive you, darling," she said softly, kissing his cheek, and he felt a keen sense that this was wholly undeserved. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and Robert reached for his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief…only to remember he was still in his pajamas, too.

"Let me," he said, pulling his sleeve down over his thumb and then using it to gently dry her tears. Cora gazed steadily at him while he did so, a new sadness in her eyes.

"I hate this for our baby," she said suddenly. "I hate that we've greeted him or her with fear and grief."

And this was the woman whom he'd called selfish, and who had believed that of herself. He'd yet to give a thought to the child.

"But we'll love it. We'll love it just as much as Charlotte and Eleanor."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," she said. "I was afraid you… That is, I want you to love it, even if…especially if I'm…"

"Of course I'll love it, Cora," he said, his voice growing thick with emotion again. "I couldn't not love a child that was half you."

In the silence that followed, she began to yawn. "Did you sleep much last night, darling?" he asked, thinking he knew the answer.

Cora shook her head. "No, not much at all."

"I'm afraid I didn't either…would you like to nap for a couple hours together?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "As long as we're together."

He kissed her lips softly and then managed the awkward business of standing up with her in his arms.

"Darling, why don't I lay you on your belly, and I'll rub your back until you're asleep?" He knew it was one of Cora's favorite ways to fall asleep, but she hesitated to ask for it, once telling him that it seemed "so very indulgent" to doze off while he worked on her back. "So very indulgent," though, was precisely what he wanted for her this morning. "You deserve a bit of pampering."

"That sounds lovely," she said with a sigh. "Thank you."

He set her down on her side of the bed then helped her roll over, arranging the pillows under her ankles and stomach that she needed for comfort while lying on her front. Then he stretched out next to her, fitting his body against hers, as they were used to sleeping…as they _loved_ to sleep. His hand settled onto her back, gently exploring her muscles as he searched for what she'd strained last night. He knew he'd found it when Cora tensed, whimpering softly as he probed a hardened muscle on the left.

"Shh, love," he murmured, kissing her forehead and letting his lips linger there as he eased his fingers into the knots. Slowly, he felt the furrows in her brow begin to relax under his lips as the muscles in her back relaxed under his hand, and he pressed another kiss against her head, feeling his own heart soothe as he soothed her body.

"Robert?" Cora asked suddenly, her voice soft but not yet sleepy. "I…I want to hold it."

"Hold what, love?"

She opened her closed eyes, and he saw the same sadness there that had been present when they'd talked of loving the child. "My baby," she said. "Whatever happens, I–I want to hold it. I don't want Clarkson to put me under for the procedure, if he doesn't think he can pull me back." She made a soft choking noise as she tried to fight tears. "I just want…I just want a few minutes with it…"

"Oh, my sweet Cora," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the bridge of her nose. "I intend for you to have far, far more than a few minutes with this baby."

And he did. He _did_. He would question every doctor in England and on the continent, as he had when she was first injured. He would not accept this as final.


	17. Chapter 16

"I didn't think you _could_ be pregnant," Charlotte said, her face a mask of confusion. Cora was sitting in her daughter's bedroom just after luncheon, explaining that she had been sick with a baby, not a deadly infection. "I thought…wasn't that why you adopted Eleanor and me? Because you couldn't have children?"

"I wasn't…that is, doctors told your father and me when I was injured that I wasn't capable of bearing children. I could conceive, but childbirth was far too dangerous for me, we were told. So Papa and I chose…to make sure we didn't conceive a child, and instead we adopted the two of you."

Yet there was still a look of shock on Charlotte's face. "But I wouldn't have thought you…it's only…" The younger woman's cheeks were turning bright pink. "Eleanor and I thought…"

Like most women of their era and class, Cora's daughters had spent their adolescence completely ignorant of sex. This had been remedied for Eleanor shortly before her wedding, Cora sending her to her aunt Rosamund for a conversation, thinking herself too far removed from able-bodied intercourse to be of much use. It was suddenly evident that Eleanor had come home and shared her knowledge with her sister— _of course_ she had—and the girls had then discussed their mother, reaching the natural conclusion that she was not capable at all. In spite of the distressing news she was sharing, Cora suddenly wanted to laugh.

"Darling, do you understand how a woman conceives a child?" she asked, trying to keep any hint of laughter out of her voice, and trying not to think of what she and Robert has just done upon waking from their rest that morning.

Charlotte nodded, her eyes on the floor. "Yes, Eleanor told me," she squeaked. "And we decided—please don't be angry, but we talked about you, and we decided you… _couldn't_ , and that was why you couldn't have children."

Cora smiled gently. "That's perfectly logical—I thought the same when I was first crippled. But it's not true. I'm quite capable of doing what's needed to make a baby." Charlotte's face turned a deeper shade of pink at this phrase.

"But your father and I knew how dangerous it was," Cora went on, "and so we decided not to do that while I was young enough to conceive. We'd wait, we decided, until I was past childbearing age. And I thought…I thought I was. I…my bleeding had stopped, and so I thought…but we were wrong, clearly."

Charlotte took all this in in silence, and Cora sat quietly, waiting for her to speak. "But now you're pregnant," she said at last, fiddling with a small perfume bottle on her dressing table. "So…so you're going to have a baby."

"Yes," Cora said softly.

"But what will that mean?" She still would not look at her mother, and Cora tensed, wondering if she wouldn't react as her father had at first. "You said…it's dangerous?"

"It is…I can't give birth on my own, because I won't be able to push the baby out. Dr. Clarkson says I'll need to have a caesarean." Charlotte flinched, and she knew she didn't need to tell her daughter how risky the procedure was.

There was another heavy silence as Cora, unsure what to say until her daughter gave some indication what she wanted to hear, watched Charlotte blink furiously.

"Why did you do it?" Charlotte said, her voice thick. She turned to Cora at last, her chin trembling as her tears began to spill over. " _Why_ , Mama?"

"Darling, I didn't know—that is, I thought I did _know_. I thought I knew I was too old."

"But you're–you're not even quite forty-five! _Plenty_ of women have babies in their early forties!"

"I know, darling, I know," Cora said, wishing she had better words to soothe her. "I know. And Papa and I are so sorry—" She reached out to stroke her daughter's hair, but Charlotte pulled away.

"How could you let this _happen_?" she sobbed, standing and stepping away. "How _could_ you?"

"Charlotte, darling…" Cora began, not sure what she would say. She had not thought anything could be more painful than Robert's anger last night, but Charlotte's grief—grief she had caused, grief she could not ease—was infinitely worse.

Her daughter shook her head. "Please," she said. "Please go. I…need to be alone."

But she did not need to be alone, Cora knew as she wheeled herself out the door. She needed to be away from _her_.

* * *

"The _cow_!" O'Brien exclaimed as soon as she and Thomas had shut the door out into the courtyard. "Ten years of my life is what I've given her! Ten bloody years!"

"Oh for God's sake, don't be so dramatic," Thomas muttered. "Don't quit, just because you're disgusted thinking of how she's gotten herself pregnant. Lord G'll likely give you more money, you know. For looking after her while she's expecting. You know how he fusses over her."

"Give me more money? _Give me more money?_ He's going to sack me, is what he's going to do! The bastard wants someone with more experience to look after his crippled princess now."

"You've never had a pregnant lady?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I've spent the better part of my career looking after a useless cripple! Of course I've not had a pregnant lady."

Thomas lit a cigarette and passed it to her. "Has she told you this?" he asked. "Has she told you you're going, or did you overhear it from one of them?"

"No, but she's taken out an advertisement in _The Lady_ —heard her talking with the old lady about it, and about the responses. She'll not sack me until she's got a replacement—heaven forbid she drag a brush through her own hair! The filthy, ungrateful _cow_ …and mark my words; if I'm going, you won't be far behind."

"Then you'd better fix this now," he muttered. "Now's your last chance—ingratiate yourself. Make yourself indispensable."

"I _am_ bloody indispensable! The bitch can't even sit up in bed on her own."

"There must be something you can do—"

"Oh, there's bloody well something I can do! I'm the one helping her nurse drag her in and out of bed and get her in and out of the bath and all the rest of it. Accidents do happen in these cases, you know."

* * *

"How was your tea with Matthew?" Cora asked quietly as Charlotte stepped into the drawing room. It had been five days since she had told her oldest about the pregnancy, and while they were certainly speaking, and Charlotte had not been sharp, there was a coolness in her, a distance, a tendency to retreat from Cora's presence. Cora believed her when she said she was not angry, but she was at a loss to fix the situation, and it was slowly breaking her heart to watch her frightened daughter pull away when she so desperately wanted to soothe her.

"I haven't given him an answer yet, if that's what you're asking," Charlotte said, moving toward the fireplace and examining an ornate vase on the mantel. She had not fully looked at her mother all week.

"It wasn't, quite, but I might have asked that eventually, so thank you." Ordinarily, Cora would have asked why, or asked how Matthew was taking Charlotte's silence, but their relationship at the moment felt too thin to withstand any probing. "Did you stop and see your grandmother as well?"

"Yes, and she's still steaming over the maid's impending departure."

Cora could not help but smile. "Yes, I know. I've taken out a few ads for her."

"Matthew's annoyed, I think," Charlotte said after a moment's silence. "He wasn't, at first, but the last few days…I don't know. He told me not to 'stall' and asked if I was waiting to see what your baby was. I told him of course I wasn't, because what difference would it make, but he gave me a hard look and didn't answer. And the truth, of course, is that it _does_ make a difference, because I'm not sure…do I _want_ to be just a solicitor's wife, if you had a boy? But what other choice would I have? I doubt I'm going to marry an aristocrat."

Of course Matthew had plenty of income, of course Charlotte would live comfortably as his wife, but Cora knew it would certainly be in contrast to her life at Downton. And of course, that was her fault as well—it struck her as distinctly cruel to announce to someone of Charlotte's age that the great inheritance they had counted on for twenty years might no longer be theirs. As Eleanor would, Charlotte would inherit a small cash sum upon Cora and Robert's deaths, but it would not be a significant means of support. The inheritances of daughters weren't intended to be.

"Darling," Cora began awkwardly, "Papa and I never wanted…that is, I know it's unfair to—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mama," Charlotte snapped, "I'm not angry about the _money_."

"But you are angry?" Cora asked softly. If only her daughter would _admit_ it, perhaps they might get somewhere. "You _are_ angry with us?"

For the first time since she'd entered the room, Charlotte turned, lifting her eyes to meet Cora's, and for a long moment they held each other's gaze. "No," she whispered at last. "No, I'm not angry with you. I don't–I don't _want_ to be angry with you, not now."

But whether she wanted it or not, there was resentment in her eyes, and Cora knew it would not easily fade. How she _wished_ none of this had happened!

Before she could speak—not that she'd known what to say—Charlotte went on. "I don't know what this means for Matthew's interest, either. I'd think if he truly were a fortune hunter, he'd drop me now, or he'd be stalling too to see if the baby is a boy, and then he'd drop me after my brother was born. But is he pushing me for an answer because he thinks I'll tell him no, and then he'll have a simple way out?"

It was a ridiculous line of thought—surely, if Matthew had merely wanted Charlotte's inheritance, he would push the formal engagement off until after the birth, as she had just suggested herself—that suggested to Cora how desperately uncertain Charlotte was about everything now. Wanting to give her daughter something she could settle in her mind, something she could cling to in the midst of their family's current stress, Cora made the immediate decision to tell her about the wheelchair.

"Darling, I don't think Matthew's a fortune hunter. I've thought that for a long time. He's very…he's quite averse to anything that might manipulate you. He told me—he told me some time ago that he wanted you to fall for him, and him alone."

Charlotte blinked. "What? You've _discussed_ this with him?"

"Not since his proposal, no. But…you remember when I got the new chair?"

"Yes, the one Papa ordered from London."

"Papa didn't order it from London. Matthew brought it back from Manchester."

"What?"

"Matthew brought it back from Manchester," Cora repeated. "A doctor he knows there—an old friend of his father's—works with crippled patients, and Matthew went to him to ask if there might be a way to construct a wheelchair that I could move myself. There was, and he bought one, and brought it to Downton while you and Eleanor were gone, because he didn't want you to know it had come from him. He asked me not to tell you it was his gift, because he wanted to pursue you, and he did not want to buy your affections or make you feel that you'd been manipulated. He said he wanted to win you on his own merits. And darling, that's not something many fortune hunters say."

Charlotte's expression had at first been stunned, but it was slowly turning white, hardening into something like fury, and Cora could not comprehend why. Did she _want_ to think her suitor a fortune hunter?

"He bought _you_ something," Charlotte said, her voice trembling, "a wonderful, _extravagant gift_ , so that _you and Papa_ were grateful to him, and then he told you to _lie_ to _me_ so I wouldn't know what he'd done?"

"I wouldn't phrase it quite like that—"

"I've been stupid," Charlotte snapped, more to herself than to her mother. "Inexcusably _stupid_."

And she swept from the room.

* * *

AN: On Friday, I'm leaving for 2 weeks in Europe—England (Durham, York, Grantham, and London) and Budapest. (And I do have tickets for Highclere Castle!) It's going to be awesome, but unfortunately it means that I won't be posting any updates for a couple weeks, as I won't have time to write while I'm gone. But I promise I'm not abandoning you, and I promise to be back with chapter 17 the second week of May! Please don't lose interest while you wait! :-)


	18. Chapter 17

AN: Hello all! I'm sorry I'm a few days late with this chapter—I got home from Europe a week ago, but I've been swamped both at work and at home ever since after being away for two weeks. (It was a wonderful trip, by the way—I fell in love with the northern part of England, especially Yorkshire. And visiting Highclere Castle was SO cool. Like walking around in my television!)

Anyway, thanks for being patient. Here's a very long chapter for you all! As a quick review, we left off with Charlotte (who's still very troubled by her mother's pregnancy announcement) learning that Matthew (who has proposed to Charlotte, and she's been hesitating) secretly gave Cora her new wheelchair. For reasons that were unclear in the last chapter, Charlotte was furious at this development.

Also, to people whose stories I've been following: I haven't reviewed because I haven't read anything since I left for Europe a few weeks ago. I promise to catch up soon!

* * *

Matthew was alone in the parlor of Crawley House when there was a knock at the door, followed a few minutes later by a familiar female voice raised at Molesley.

"I _demand_ to see Mr. Crawley immediately!" he heard Charlotte nearly shout. "I don't _care_ what he's doing; I _must_ see him!"

"Miss Crawley, Mr. Crawley has asked not to be disturbed. He—"

"Molesley, I insist! I—"

But Matthew had by now abandoned the letter he was writing and hurried into the front hall. "Charlotte?" he asked, alarmed at the paleness in her complexion. All he could imagine was that something had happened to Cora. "What is it? Is your mother…"

"My mother," she said, her voice icy as she turned toward him, "is quite well. It's _you_ I'd like to discuss."

Matthew took an almost-involuntary step back at the fire he saw in his cousin's eyes. There had been some irritation between them bubbling under the surface when she'd left a half hour ago after tea, but he could not think what would have transformed that irritation into her sudden fury.

"I _insist_ that you speak with me," Charlotte went on.

"Of course, of course," he said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. He was equal parts curious and alarmed. "Come in—my mother isn't home."

"I don't care if your mother hears this," she snapped. "Although I'm sure _you're_ ashamed of yourself."

"Charlotte, you must tell me what it is that I've done," he said as he led her into the parlor and closed the door behind her. "I haven't meant to upset you so."

"I'm sure you bloody well didn't mean to upset me! You didn't mean for me to find out at all!" He flinched to hear such language from a refined young lady, but his would-be fiancée was not finished.

"You never intended for me to know that you're…you're…you're a lying, stinking, manipulative…" He held his breath, genuinely unsure what epithet might pass her lips and watching her struggle with herself. " _Scoundrel_ ," she breathed, making it sound like the worst of curses.

"Who is it you imagine I've manipulated? Whom do you think I've lied to?" he asked, more perplexed than offended.

"My parents! And myself! How _dare_ you charm me and woo me and ask for my hand when you've been plotting all along to steal my inheritance? Is this marriage your back-up plan if you can't bring it off?"

Steal her inheritance? Whatever did she imagine he wanted with her inheritance? Surely she hadn't much of one in the first place. "Charlotte," he said, keeping his voice even and looking her steadily in the eye, "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

She slapped her hand down onto the table she was standing next to, and he wondered for a second if she wouldn't strike him next. "My mother's wheelchair! What do you think you were doing giving her that wheelchair?"

Matthew didn't know how she'd found that out, and at the moment, he didn't much care. "Helping her," he said, still holding his voice steady in hopes that his calmness would snap his cousin out of whatever strange fever had suddenly gripped her. "I wanted to help her. I thought it must have been terribly frustrating never to be able to move on her own, and when I discovered I could fix that for her, I didn't think twice about it. You wouldn't have either."

" _I_ wouldn't have been desperately trying to manipulate my parents! You think you can charm your way in—you think you can _buy_ them—"

"For heaven's sake, Charlotte!" he snapped, losing his patience. "I don't want anything from your parents! I didn't buy your mother the chair to manipulate her into whatever it is you're imagining; I bought it for because I care for her! I worry about her, and I feel compassion for her—as you and the rest of your family do! Should I _not_ be kind to her? Do you not _want_ me to care about your mother?"

"What I _want_ is for you to quit sniffing around us like a vulture in hopes of inheriting Downton!"

"What?" He stared at her, not comprehending. "Charlotte, I _am_ inheriting Downton. I thought this was about your inheritance, not mine?"

She stared back at him, and he suddenly realized that she was just as stunned as he was. "You—I—you're not—I…who on _earth_ told you you're inheriting Downton?" she sputtered. " _I'm_ to inherit the estate!"

She…she _was_? Matthew searched frantically through his memories, but he could not recall ever having been told that he was specifically inheriting _Downton_ and all its lands. Had that not been said? "I…I merely assumed…I…the first letter I received stated that I was the new heir of the Earl of Grantham," he said, trying to recall the wording. He'd been told that the family seat was at Downton, where the earl and his family were currently living, but…

"But you were also told that, rather unconventionally, you would only inherit the title, weren't you? That the earl had already settled his property on his eldest child?"

"What? No! No, I was never told that!" Was the estate really all to be… _Charlotte's_?

His cousin stared silently at him, her lips moving slightly as though she could not quite force words out. "You…you really weren't, were you?" she breathed at last. "You…you didn't know?"

"God, no, Charlotte," he said. "No, I had no idea. I just…clearly, I jumped to conclusions, and…I…God knows what you must think…"

"I heard you," she said suddenly, her words quickly pouring out. "I heard you, the day you first arrived, talking to your mother about inheriting the house, and I assumed you must know Downton was to be mine, but you were determined to charm my father into giving it to you, because you wanted an estate to go with your eventual title. And—"

"And you thought I was out to steal your inheritance," he finished.

"Yes! And then I thought you were only courting me because you'd given up on having it transferred to you, so you'd just take it the old-fashioned way by marriage—"

"No! I only ever—"

"Then I found out that you'd bought the wheelchair—and you'd wanted that kept from me—and I thought it was one more attempt to manipulate my parents, because you wanted an inheritance."

"No! No, I don't want any of it. I never wanted any of it—I didn't even want it when I thought it was mine; I certainly don't want it if it's yours!"

"You–you don't even want it?" she asked. "You're not even disappointed to know it won't be yours?"

"It might not have been, anyway," he said thoughtfully. "If your mother's baby is a boy…"

"Of course, but now you know you've got no chance at all."

It was funny, he thought suddenly, very funny, and he began to laugh. Of course it should seem odd to her to know he did not want such a grand inheritance, and what a relief it was to know it would not be forced on him!

"Matthew?" Charlotte asked.

"It's a relief," he said through his laughter. "It's a relief to know it won't be mine. I never wanted to be an earl; I never wanted a great estate."

"You will still be an earl, unless the baby is a boy," she reminded him. "You're still the heir to my father's title, and there's no changing that. You just aren't the heir to his property."

"Yes, but I won't be a real earl in anyone's eyes, not if I've got no land. I can go on with my life if Downton's not to be mine."

Charlotte gave him a long look. "What is it?" he asked hesitantly, suspecting that he had somehow offended or upset her once again.

"But…won't it still be yours, Matthew?" she asked softly. "If the baby's not a boy, that is…and if you marry me?"

"What?" he heard himself ask stupidly, his mind spinning as he did the math. Yes, of course it would be his, theirs, if they were married. He had not escaped Downton, not if he was to marry its future owner.

"If you marry me," she repeated, "all my property will be yours. So you _will_ have the estate. If you…do you still _want_ to marry me?"

Of course he did. Whether _he_ wanted to marry _her_ had never been the question. Perhaps, he found himself musing, had he known from the beginning that to marry Charlotte was to marry Downton, he might have shied away from her. He was, he almost chuckled to think, the opposite of a fortune hunter. But now, now that he had fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her… _now_ he would have married her had it forced him to become the next Prince Albert.

"Of _course_ I want to marry you," he said. "Charlotte, there's nothing on earth that could convince me I _didn't_ want to marry you. I…my darling, I love you."

He watched as she nodded, her lip quivering, and then burst into tears.

* * *

She had cried her tears of joy and relief and surprise in his arms, and then he had kissed her and they had sat down together on the sofa, her head still resting against Matthew's shoulder as his fingers stroked lightly over her hair. She did not think she ever wanted to move, and she was beginning to hope that Isobel would never return home. His earlier proposal had been the stilted sort she had always expected as a young aristocrat—there had been affection underlying it, but no grand declarations, certainly no kiss or anything beyond the soft pressing of her hand. But now—now that her hesitations had been cleared away, now that she knew how she felt, now that _he_ knew how she felt—and, oh God, she did love him—it was as though the entire world had shifted, and she could not press her body close enough to his.

"Darling," he said now—how she was quickly growing to love that word in his mouth!—"when would you like to be married?"

Charlotte was quiet for a moment—she could not see past the fall, after her mother… "Soon," she said softly. "I want—I would want my mother to see it."

"And of course, she would want to attend," Matthew said.

Charlotte did not acknowledge the sentence, finding it too painful in her current circumstances to discuss her mother's feelings for her.

"So we'll marry before her confinement," he went on. _Before her death,_ Charlotte wanted to say, but she loved him for pretending this was nothing more than a normal pregnancy.

"Perhaps in September?" she asked. "Right after Eleanor and Evelyn return to England." Cora was not due until December, but Charlotte was deeply afraid they did not even have that long, for she suspected her mother might not carry to term. There might not be a new baby at all.

"September, then." There was a moment's silence as Matthew continued to play with a strand of hair that had worked itself free from her chignon. "If your mother has a boy, of course, we won't have Downton," he said thoughtfully.

"No, and you will be relieved."

"Well, yes," he said with a soft chuckle. "But…will you still be glad you married me? Charlotte, can you be just a solicitor's wife?"

"If you're the solicitor," she said, knowing the answer instantly. She loved Matthew. Of course she loved Matthew. How had she ever _not_ known that she loved Matthew?

He took her chin in his hand and kissed her.

* * *

Robert was at his desk in the library, marveling over his attorney's irresponsibility. _When I searched through the papers on my desk,_ Murray's letter said, _I discovered the details of your will that were to be forwarded to Mr. Crawley. Clearly, the papers never made it out of my office and certainly never reached him. The fault and mistake were mine and mine alone._

Robert shook his head, reading the lines again. How disastrous this might have proved, and how lucky they had been that Matthew was more relieved than angry to learn he wasn't the heir he thought he was. Had the truth been the bombshell it easily could have been, he would have been in the market for a new attorney, but given that no lasting harm had been done, Robert saw no reason to dismiss the man. He was in far too good of a mood at the news of his eldest daughter's engagement to a young man he liked and admired.

"Your lordship?"

He looked behind him to see the butler standing in the doorway. "Yes, Carson?"

"My lord, Thomas was hoping he might have a word." Carson's voice dripped with disapproval at this announcement. "He says it's urgent that he speak directly to your lordship."

The footman? This was certainly unorthodox, but a footman wanting to address him directly was certainly no worse than Murray's botching of the Matthew situation. "By all means, send him in."

He was soon alone with the young man who had been first footman for two years' time. "You wanted to see me, Thomas?" he asked, more curious than irritated.

"Yes, milord." Thomas cleared his throat. "I wanted to speak with you about…about her ladyship's maid. About Miss O'Brien."

"Miss O'Brien?" Whatever did a footman have to do with a lady's maid?

"Yes, milord. Miss O'Brien and I are…on good terms, you could say. And so she speaks freely with me, milord. She…she's angry with her ladyship."

"Angry?" What reason could O'Brien have to be angry with Cora? What _right_ had she to be angry? What right had any of these people to be angry? "It's not her place to be angry, Thomas. It's not any of your places."

"Certainly not, milord. But Miss O'Brien…she's not just angry; she _despises_ her ladyship. It's been that way for some time."

The thought that Cora could be despised by anyone was so foreign that Robert did not know what to say. He was not entirely sure he believed it—he could not imagine what motive the footman would have to lie, or how he would benefit from a maid's sacking, but perhaps O'Brien was unpopular downstairs? "Why are you telling me this?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because, your lordship, Miss O'Brien has said she's going to hurt her ladyship."

"How?" he asked, his mouth going dry. "What has she said?"

Likely this was all the result of petty bickering downstairs. Likely there wasn't a pinch of truth in any of it. But…what if there was? And what if something were to happen to Cora?

"I'm not sure how she'll do it, milord. She hasn't been specific—I'm not sure she's certain how. She's only commented on how it's her that helps her ladyship with everything, helps her in and out of her bath and in and out of her chair, and she keeps saying accidents do happen. I don't know if she means to drop her, or—"

"Good God," Robert breathed, trying not to imagine Cora falling or being pushed from her chair. She might be hurt badly, and the baby…

"I knew I had to tell you, milord. I'm sure any of us would have sounded the alarm before harm came to any member of this family, but it troubled me even more, milord, because it was her ladyship. Because it wasn't right to hurt a cripple."

Robert's right hand was gripping the edge of his desk so hard he thought it might crack. How dare anyone think of hurting Cora…

 _But you don't know for sure,_ a small voice in the back of his head said. _You don't know it's true._ And he knew very well he could not turn a woman who had served faithfully for years out on the street based on hearsay, no matter how ugly or frightening the rumors were.

"Can you prove this?" he asked Thomas. "Can anyone substantiate this besides you?"

"No, milord," Thomas said. "Miss O'Brien keeps to herself, doesn't talk much with the others. She's not very popular downstairs, I wouldn't say." Ah, perhaps it was as Robert had suspected. But before he could speak, the footman went on, and Robert was chilled to hear a wavering of true fear in the younger man's voice.

"But it is true, milord. I swear it on my position, and I don't want to see her ladyship hurt. Would you—if you must have proof—would you consider coming to the courtyard this evening, and keeping to the shadows? Or sending someone you know you can trust? I'll bring Miss O'Brien outside, milord, and draw her into conversation, and you'll hear her words with your own ears."

* * *

AN: No, I don't believe Thomas would raise the alarm to prevent any member of the family from being hurt, as he claims here. Had O'Brien told him in canon that she planned to hurt Cora in season 1, I doubt he would have turned a hair, especially given his, "she'll get over it; they're no bigger than a hamster at that stage," comments.

However, in this AU, I think Thomas (even nasty season 1 Thomas) would feel sympathy for Cora. I think he'd identify with her vulnerability, with her poor treatment from other aristocrats, and with her not-quite-all-the-way-there position socially, because I think he'd see similarities to his own position as a gay man. So while I don't imagine that he's overly fond of her, and he has no problem listening to O'Brien insult her, I think he'd draw the line at O'Brien physically hurting her.

Also, given that it's always the other servants who have to help innocents get off, I think Murray is a terrible attorney, and I can totally see him botching something like this. How in season 6 did it occur to no one except Molesley and Baxter that verifying Bates's alibi might help him?


	19. Chapter 18

AN: So I think this might be the longest chapter I've ever written for a fic...it just kept going, and I'm trying to keep to 21 chapters, so we may have some more long ones ahead. :-) Also, my goal is to start catching up on other fics this evening!

* * *

"I hope O'Brien's doing all right, looking after her poor sister," Cora said as she set the soap on the side of the bathtub. "I do worry about her…it must have been quite a shock, and quite an emergency, for her to have left so suddenly."

Robert fought an urge to put his fist through the bathroom wall. It was bad enough to hear O'Brien's name in his wife's mouth for neutral reasons, such as a mention of where the maid had kept a favorite wrap or how she put up her hair, but to hear Cora speak of her with affection and concern made him want to vomit.

Robert had taken Thomas up on his invitation to eavesdrop in the servants' courtyard, where, crouching behind some barrels and feeling like a French spy, he had heard a venomous Sarah O'Brien spew such hatred for his wife that he'd nearly had to pick himself up off the ground in shock. He'd gathered that O'Brien believed herself in danger of losing her position—which she certainly was now—and blamed this on Cora, the "stupid cow," "damn fool," and "crippled bitch." He'd felt his blood turn hot at the latter epithet especially, and his hands had shook with his rage as he'd listened to O'Brien mutter about how she intended to _"make her pay."_ But it was none of this that had suddenly propelled him from behind the barrels and made him rush the maid, seize her by the shoulders, and shake her violently, shouting that she must be gone from his house _this instant_.

No, what had made him lay rough hands on a woman for the first time in his life was O'Brien's final sneer: "Bloody _useless_ , the bitch is." He had seen Cora characterized thus far too many times, and its juxtaposition with the maid's evil intentions had been the final straw. Cora was his world, his most precious jewel, the best bit of his life, the steadying presence that got him through his days, the last warm thought that filled his mind before sleep at night. He was not sure he would be able to continue drawing breath without Cora, sweet, darling Cora…and this servant thought her _useless_ and wanted to harm her.

Yet Robert had not shared any of this with his wife, aware of how hurt she would be at a betrayal by the maid she was so fond of. He had concocted a story where O'Brien had rushed off to nurse a dying sister in Ireland and look after her children and had asked Mrs. Hughes to repeat it to her ladyship the next morning. He'd heard Cora express sympathy and worry many times in the weeks since, and her sweetness had made him see red each time.

"Robert?" he heard her ask softly, and he realized she'd spoken earlier. "Are you all right?"

He dragged himself back to the present and forced a smile. "I'm sorry, darling, I was miles away. What did you say?"

She smiled gently. "That's all right; it wasn't anything terribly important. Just that I've had a few replies to the ad for my new maid."

"Good, good. Anyone you're bringing in for an interview?" He intended to contrive a way to meet these candidates before any of them were offered the position. While he could never have imagined that O'Brien would ever dream of harming her mistress, there had always been something about the woman he had never quite liked. The experience had made him determined that if he felt even the slightest twinge of distaste for a future maid, she would not be hired and entrusted with his wife. His _pregnant_ wife, he thought as he surveyed the bulge in her abdomen.

"A couple, I think, on Monday. As eager as I am to have it settled, I shall miss having you for a maid."

Mrs. Hughes and Anna had been trading off maid duty in the mornings, sharing the more complex work of putting Cora's hair up and readying her for the day, but Robert had handled the nights, taking her hair down and helping her into and out of the bath and dressing her for bed.

Her hand was resting on the edge of the tub, and he raised it to his lips for a kiss. "You may have me as your maid whenever you like." He would give her anything she wanted, especially now that she was expecting, and of course he had no great objection to sitting here and watching her bathe in the first place.

"Darling, could you rub my back for a bit while I'm in this hot water?" she asked softly.

"Of course, love. Of course." He removed his jacket, pushed his sleeves up above his elbows, and moved the stool to sit at her side rather than at her feet.

A few years after Cora had been hurt, Robert had found a way to work on her muscles as a hot bath loosened them, and it had quickly become one of his favorite ways to tend to her. He always finished up rather damp himself, but he loved the relief that would slowly spread across her face, the kisses she would occasionally press to his cheek and jawline, and, most of all, the way he got to hold her. That she was undressed during this process was an added bonus.

Robert wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, drawing her near so that Cora rested her head against him. How he loved to cradle her so close and so protectively, watching as she closed her eyes, trusting him to take care of her. And how he loved the way she sighed as she settled against him!

Then he slipped his right arm underneath her and began to work his fist into her back, noting—not for the first time in recent weeks—that her muscles seemed more rigid than usual. He brushed a light kiss to her forehead, realizing she'd been in more pain than he'd thought.

She groaned softly as his fingers worked along the sides of her spine, and he kissed her again. "Sweetheart, have you been hurting worse lately?"

"Clarkson said it was normal," she murmured.

"Normal?" How was anything ever normal with such an unusual injury?

"Yes, it's got to do with the way the muscles prepare for birth, even though I'm barely even showing yet. And joints get a bit looser during pregnancy, even early on, so that a woman's hips can separate far enough, which means my spine will be a bit more unstable for the next few months. It's all perfectly normal; I'm just more sensitive to it all than healthy women."

It had not occurred to him that this had anything to do with her pregnancy—she was, as she said, barely showing—but the realization that it did made his heart rise into his throat. He had been worried for the end of her pregnancy since her announcement last month, for how difficult it would be for her spine to bear the weight as her belly grew, but he had not thought she would suffer so soon, and much longer than he'd anticipated. And Cora already suffered so much…

"Cora…"

"I'm all right," she said, her tone light. "It's nothing permanent, and it's nothing your hands can't fix."

Robert kissed her again, letting his lips linger against her temple. How he feared everything to do with this pregnancy—the way it affected her now, the difficulties he knew she would have later in the fall, and above all, the birth. Oh God, _the birth_.

"Cora, I do so _worry_ for you," he breathed.

"I'll be all right," she said softly. "But can we please not talk about it now?"

He heard the sudden tremor in her own voice and knew that she was frightened too, in spite of what Clarkson had told them earlier in the week.

"Of course, darling. We won't talk of it now. Just rest in my arms."

She kissed his cheek and nestled closer to him.

He felt Cora gradually relax and heard her breathing slow, and he tried to calm himself with the doctor's recent words. Clarkson, who had read every report and journal he could find on childbirth and caesareans since discovering Cora's pregnancy, had come across an 1870s study* that suggested she might manage to give birth on her own. A doctor who had been studying the womb forty years earlier had removed the lower part of the spinal cord in pigs and discovered that contractions still progressed normally in the animals' labor, even without a nerve connection. It was possible, Clarkson said, that Cora's womb might push the baby from her body of its own accord, and she might have a delivery that was no different from anyone else's.

The information had comforted them both immensely, and yet Robert knew he still had reason to worry. His wife was neither young nor healthy, and the risk of a miscarriage or stillbirth remained high. Nor was a healthy delivery a foregone conclusion for an able-bodied woman who was to be a first-time mother in her mid-forties.

And he could not bear to lose her, he thought for the millionth time as he touched his lips to her forehead. He could _not_.

When the bath water began to cool, he drained the tub and then helped Cora dry, dressed her in a nightgown, and carried her to bed, telling her he would join her as soon as he too was changed. He returned shortly and stretched out next to her, pulling her into his arms when she reached for him. The light weight of her head resting on his chest and her arm stretched over his stomach soothed him. He would have liked to have done more tonight, after all the time viewing and touching her body in the water, but he sensed that Cora was tired, and thus he contented himself with running his fingers through the silk of her chocolate curls and savoring the feel of her body partially draped over his, her still-small belly pressed against his side. Holding her was near enough to heaven.

Cora sighed happily, and he kissed the top of her head. "My darling, I do so love to hold you," he whispered with a sigh of his own.

"Mmm, I love it, too," she murmured. "You're always so warm, and so comfortable…and your hands always feel so wonderful!" she said, laughing softly as he began to rub slow, gentle circles on her back, wanting to soothe the muscles he had just worked so that she wouldn't be sore when she woke.

"Thank you for making me feel better," she went on, raising her head to kiss his chin. "That really does help."

"I'm glad, darling." He kissed the top of her head once more. "I'm glad there's something I can do for you."

She chuckled again and caressed his chest. "Robert, you do a great many things for me. You've always taken such loving care of me, and I'm grateful for it."

He did not respond, because he had not taken very good care of her lately, he didn't think—he'd entrusted her to O'Brien, who'd meant to do God knows what, and his guilt over that had reminded him of his guilt in getting her pregnant in the first place. And what if…what if…

She had asked him not to speak of it, and thus he held his tongue, slowly feeling his throat constrict, but then the words burst out, his voice strained: "I'm so…darling, I'm so _very_ afraid for you…"

Cora raised herself up on her elbow to look at his face. "Nothing has happened yet," she said steadily. "And it's likely nothing will happen. You heard Clarkson."

Robert closed his eyes, hiding the tears that always pooled there when he tried to weigh the odds. Cora was so much older than she ought to be for her first baby, and so physically weak, nor could he entirely convince himself that it was safe to take a pig's reproductive system as perfectly analogous to a human's. Suppose she _did_ need a caesarean. Suppose she…

"My dearest, we must not borrow trouble before it is due," she went on, and he felt her stroke her fingers lightly over his forehead before running them through his hair. "Clarkson will do everything he can, you will bring in the best doctors you can find, and in the meantime you're taking very good care of me. That is all we can do, and worrying won't change a bit of it."

He opened his eyes and reached up to take hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss to her palm. "Darling, I–I can't…"

"You won't have to be without me," she whispered, finishing the sentence he could not. "I'll be all right, I promise." She couldn't promise that, but how comforting to hear the words in her sweet voice anyway. "And you certainly haven't got to be without me now. So please, be at peace tonight, dearest."

He cupped the back of her head with his hand to bring her lips to his, and they kissed warmly and slowly, each drawing and giving comfort.

"We have far more to look forward to than to worry about," Cora said as she settled against his chest again. "A lovely new baby to cuddle in a few months." He heard the soft smile in her voice. "I'm terribly excited about the thought of having a baby here again."

"I am too, although I admit I haven't thought much about him or her."

"You should," she said gently. "The baby is the lovely bit at the end of all of our worries, and it's so much nicer to focus on that."

How like Cora to think that way, he thought, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. "You're right, of course." And he was, when he considered it, glad at the thought of another child. There had been vague talk of adopting a third when the girls were little, but he had thought it too much for Cora in her condition, and so the idea had been dropped. However, he had suspected she had not lost her longing for another infant to hold.

"I can't wait to see you hold it," he said, thinking of what a pretty picture she had made in the early days of Charlotte and Eleanor's lives.

"Not to hold it yourself?" she asked, puzzled.

"Of course, but I think I'm most looking forward to watching you with it. You're so lovely as a mother, Cora."

She was silent for a moment and then said, so quietly he almost didn't hear, "Thank you for letting us get the girls, all those years ago."

"Darling, I don't think I've ever been more grateful for any decision I've ever made."

"You were hesitant, at first," she said, and he could hear a smile in her voice.

"Only because I simply couldn't imagine such an idea. But…I'm so glad you've been a mother, and I've been a father."

"Eleanor and Evelyn will be back in England soon," Cora said. "We have that to look forward to as well. I've had a few letters from her—she seems very happy."

"He hasn't bored her to tears yet, then?"

"Robert!" she exclaimed, giggling, and he laughed too.

"You haven't told her about the baby, have you?" he asked.

"No…I don't want her reading that in a letter, or worrying about it on her honeymoon. But I…I _dread_ it, after the way Charlotte's taken it."

"Darling…" He kissed her again and continued stroking her hair and rubbing her back, wishing he had a better way to comfort her.

"I told Charlotte what Clarkson said," she murmured after a moment. "I thought—if she knew I wasn't in nearly the danger we'd all thought—I thought she might be all right, that she wouldn't be so… _resentful_."

"But nothing's changed."

"No, nothing's changed. She's just so…cold."

Part of him could understand why Charlotte was angry, why she likely faulted them both for the carelessness that had led to Cora's pregnancy. He could not bear to be angry with Cora any more, but there were many days when he still hated himself. Yet Charlotte had now had several weeks to consider, to move past her initial emotions, to realize how foolish her attitude was and that she was only hurting both herself and Cora…especially now that they had Clarkson's new information.

"This has gone on long enough," he said with a sigh. "I'll speak to her tomorrow."

"No, don't do that."

"No?"

"No," Cora said thoughtfully, "that will only push her further away if she feels like you're pushing her. Let me talk with her again in the morning and see…see if she'll tell me why she's still like this, even now that we know it's not nearly the risk we thought."

Robert said nothing, afraid to see her hurt again but knowing she would not concede to him in this.

* * *

Cora asked Charlotte to join her in the morning room** for a cup of tea before luncheon, thinking it seemed more private than catching her daughter in the drawing room or the library, but less invasive than pushing into Charlotte's bedroom and less her own territory than insisting Charlotte come to hers. The morning room, of course, was also Cora's, having been intended for the lady of the house to manage her correspondence and her social engagements, and she did spend most of her mornings here. It was directly beneath her bedroom, and Robert would carry her down the back stairs most days and seat her at the small desk or on the rose-patterned sofa, where she sat today.

However, she doubted either of her daughters saw it as exclusively her own room, for they'd spent most of the mornings of their childhood here. Cora had always been fond of having them near her, yet she'd always felt as though she were the nanny's guest when she'd spent time in the nursery, and most of Downton's other rooms seemed too cavernous for small children—in addition to her mother-in-law's disapproving looks and her father-in-law's perpetual concerns about broken lamps and vases. And so Cora had had her girls brought here most days, to this small, white, light-filled room where they'd played on the floor at her feet while she'd written letters or climbed onto her lap for snuggles and stories. It was in many ways the place she most associated with their childhoods.

"You wanted to see me this morning?"

Cora looked up to see Charlotte lingering in the doorway, as though she were having second thoughts on whether she wanted to come in at all. She sighed inwardly at her daughter's cool greeting, noting its stiffness.

"Yes, darling. Sit down; William is bringing tea in a moment."

Charlotte nodded and joined Cora on the couch, perching on the edge of the seat cushion as though this were an unpleasant social call she hoped to cut short.

"I've had another letter from your sister," Cora began, searching for a neutral topic as they waited for the tea to arrive.

"Yes, she writes me as well," Charlotte said simply, but she did not elaborate, nor did she prolong eye contact with her mother.

As Robert had said, this had gone on too long. It had been a month of silences and avoidance, and now Cora could barely make conversation with her own child. She had thought it best to let Charlotte come to terms with the situation on her own—Charlotte had been quite clear that she did not want to discuss it further—and had thought she ought to give her daughter the space she needed to grieve. Yet she seemed more distant each day, and the news Cora had imparted a few days earlier that the prognosis was not nearly as dire as they thought had made alarmingly little difference.

Cora let silence fall as they waited for the footman, not wanting to be interrupted in the conversation that must be had, and at last William had come and gone and she was pouring two cups of tea.

"I had hoped," she began carefully as Charlotte accepted hers and dropped in a lump of sugar, "that you might tell me what it is that's upsetting you."

"I'm not upset."

"You don't seem very happy."

"Well, I am. I am happy. Quite happy for you."

Cora forced herself not to sigh. She was not here to drag congratulations on her pregnancy out of Charlotte. "It's only that I thought you might be…gladder to hear the news I shared with you from Clarkson."

"I was glad!" Charlotte exclaimed, and the shock on her face seemed perfectly sincere. "Of course I was glad to learn how much better the odds are than we'd thought. Do you think I _want_ you to die?"

It seemed an exceptionally odd thing to say, when she thought it was Charlotte's anger over the risk to her life that had brought them to this point. "Of course not! I had thought—your father and I had assumed—that you've been so…withdrawn lately because you resented our allowing this to happen. Because you were angry I'd taken such a risk. Have I misunderstood something?" Cora set her teacup down and studied Charlotte's face.

"I suppose not entirely," the younger woman said thoughtfully. "I was upset about that. I did resent you for it. It…it just seemed that you'd been so foolish, and so careless." Charlotte shrugged. "But I didn't feel that way very long—a week at the most. I understand why you thought what you thought, and I understand why you and Papa…did what you did. And I'm not upset now. I'm not upset!"

Why did she persist in denying the obvious? "Darling, I'm not angry with you," Cora said gently. "I wouldn't ever be angry with you for any feeling you might have. But if all that's true, then I don't understand what's made you so distant, and I wish you'd tell me. Because, darling, I want to know what's wrong." A month ago she would have smoothed Charlotte's hair as she spoke, but she had seen Charlotte freeze at her touch enough times in recent weeks that she was wary of reaching for her.

Charlotte set her own cup on the small table and then sat back and looked steadily at Cora. "I _am_ happy for you," she said. "I promise I am. But I…this is tremendously hard for me, and I don't deny that it's hard. I'm surprised _you_ don't understand that it's hard." There had been irritation in her voice at the last sentence, but after a pause, she suddenly reached out and seized her mother's hand with both of hers. Cora started at the contact, for Charlotte had not touched her in weeks. "But please believe me when I tell you that I'm glad for you. Because I _do_ love you, and I am grateful to you, and I want you to be happy. And I know—I realize you must have wanted to be a mother all your life, and now you finally will be."

Cora knew that she flinched, drawing back at the words and pulling her hands away, but she could not help it, for she did not think it would have felt any different had Charlotte simply slapped her face.

"Have I–have I not been _your_ mother?" she whispered.

"Oh, of course, you were, you were," Charlotte said quickly. _Were._ Not, _you_ _are_. Cora felt her heart break at the casual rejection and willed herself not to cry. "And I'm grateful," Charlotte went on, her voice strained, "truly I am. But this…" She gestured vaguely at Cora's stomach. "This is… _real_ now. You'll actually have your own child—you won't have to love someone else's instead. You…you won't need _substitutes_ anymore."

It took Cora's breath away to hear Charlotte parrot the phrases Cora had heard from so many well-meaning acquaintances when she and Robert had first adopted: "Pity that's not your _real_ baby." "It's such a shame you can't have a child of your own." "How good of you to want to love some unfortunate woman's child." "If you can't have your own child, it's lovely you've got such a sweet baby to substitute." Cora had merely stared in shock, anger, and hurt the first few times she'd heard such sentiments, amazed that anyone could think Charlotte anything less than her own, real child, but she'd quickly learned to respond, to correct, to reprimand, and to rebuke, depending on the source. It had never occurred to her that she might one day hear such things from her own daughter.

"Darling, you must not think this way," she gasped. "You _know_ how much Papa and I love you; you _know_ —"

But Charlotte cut her off, shaking her head. "I'm not angry. Please don't think I'm angry. I know you don't mean to hurt me; I know you've done none of this on purpose. And I know you can't help but realize the difference between Eleanor and I and your real baby. I don't blame you for that."

Cora seized both of her hands. "Charlotte, you _are_ my real baby."

She was suddenly seeing not dozens of friends and strangers of the 1890s, but Charlotte herself as a toddler, as the three-year-old who had come running to her the night they had adopted Eleanor. Cora and Robert had made the ill-judged decision to bring her along for their return to London's Foundling Hospital—a place that seemed so much more dark and hopeless than they'd remembered—and a frightened Charlotte had awakened that evening from a nightmare, sobbing that she did not want to be returned to the home now that they had another baby, and would they send her back if she was bad? It had broken Cora's heart at the time, but it was far more painful to realize that, underneath Charlotte's outward confidence, the old insecurity that she was somehow returnable or replaceable, somehow not fully theirs, had never entirely let her go.

"You couldn't be any more real," Cora went on, raising each hand to her lips for a kiss, "and you couldn't be any more my baby." She felt a tear—a tear of regret that she had let Charlotte feel this way for weeks, a tear of pain at her daughter's pain—slip down her cheek, and she did not want to cry in front of Charlotte, but she did not want to let go of her hands to wipe it away.

Yet her daughter's expression seemed to change the second she saw it, softening with something like…hope. "Mama?" she whispered. The word was barely audible, and her lips formed it slowly, as though she were trying it out.

And it was then that Cora realized what had been eerie about Charlotte's speech. It was not just that it was cold; it was that she had not called Cora "Mama" for weeks. She had not called her anything else; she had simply avoided any direct address at all.

"My darling, you _are_ my own child," she said, letting go of one hand to touch Charlotte's cheek. "You are _not_ a substitute—you could _never_ be anyone's substitute. You are not mine, and this baby is not mine, because of which womb you've come from. You are my children because I _love_ you, and there is nothing that will ever change that, _ever_."

"You don't…you don't think you'll feel…differently about this one? Even after you've carried it for so many months?"

"I _will_ feel differently," Cora said, feeling the truth of her own words. "This baby is different from you, and Eleanor is different from you. I love you all the same, but you are different from your siblings, Charlotte…because it was _you_ , not this baby, who made me a mother. I'd given up on that after my accident, and then…my darling, when they first placed you in my arms, all I could do was weep, because I loved you so much it was almost more than I could bear. I loved you more than I had ever imagined was possible."

Cora could see tears swimming in Charlotte's eyes, too, as her daughter moved to embrace her, and they both squeezed each other tightly, Charlotte burying her face in her mother's neck. Cora kissed her possessively, feeling the same love exploding in her heart that she had felt on that crisp autumn day in 1890.

"Oh, my darling," she breathed as she held on. "My precious, _precious_ girl. Do not _ever_ think you're not loved."

* * *

*Yep, this is totally a real study, conducted by a young doctor who's regarded as one of the fathers of anesthesia. Since life-after-paralysis wasn't much of a thing in the 1870s, he wasn't looking to see whether you could give birth without a working spinal cord; he was just interested in childbirth and wanted to see whether the uterus could work without brain signals. He proved that it could, but I doubted that would have been known by Clarkson (or even the spinal cord doctor who treated Cora when she was first injured) until he did further reading.

**So I discovered on my visit to Highclere that there are several lovely rooms that they never use on the show. I think that's such a shame, as well as a bit odd when you consider that it's a big house, but the family never congregates anywhere but the drawing room, the library, and the dining room, so I've decided to rectify a bit of that in my fics. The morning room was one of my favorites, because it just seemed so very Cora…light-filled, elegant, and feminine without being fussy. Google "Highclere morning room" and see if you can find a photo. :-) The back stairs Cora mentions here are another elegant staircase in use by the family, but they're less grand than the main stairs used for all the filming. They go from right outside Cora's room to outside the morning room (and they would actually be the most direct way for Cobert to get upstairs at the end of the night when they leave the drawing room, so it's rather strange if you know the floor plan that they are only ever shown using the main stairs).


	20. Chapter 19

Charlotte hurried up the stairs, clutching the telegram that had arrived at breakfast. Eleanor and Evelyn had docked at Southampton yesterday afternoon and would be arriving for dinner at Downton that evening. She was excited to see her sister again, she was anxious to hear about the honeymoon (although she doubted she'd get Eleanor alone tonight, and perhaps a private tea was in order soon), and she was morbidly curious whether having tales of two months' holiday in France and Italy would make Evelyn any less dull.

But she was most of all eager to share the news with her mother and had thus snatched the telegram from her father before he could deliver it himself. Charlotte knew how happy news of Eleanor's return would make Cora, and at the moment she delighted in things that made her mother happy.

Nearly a month had passed since their conversation about Cora's "real" children, and Charlotte was still reveling in the restoration of their relationship. She was also—much like her father, she suspected—channeling all her worry about the upcoming delivery into doing everything she could think of to keep her mother comfortable and happy. She was forever fetching and fluffing pillows and picking her mother flowers in the gardens and bringing her her favorite sweets from the village shop. Cora had laughed gently, telling her she was a grown-up version of her toddler self, ferrying toys and plush animals to her mother's chair.

"Mama?" she called out excitedly, tapping lightly on the bedroom door.

"Come in!'

Charlotte stepped inside to find her mother accepting a breakfast tray from a dark-haired woman roughly Cora's own age. Ah, of course—she'd been told that the new lady's maid was to arrive yesterday afternoon.

It had taken several weeks longer than her mother had anticipated to find a new maid—something which Cora had resolutely blamed on Robert with a mix of irritation and amusement. He'd been quite picky about who was hired, wanting to speak with all the candidates himself and pronouncing himself "not quite sure" about most of them. "I suppose it's because of the baby," Cora had told Charlotte. "You know how protective he is at the best of times, and now…I'm sure you understand that he's out of his mind with worry," she'd said softly.

Charlotte could certainly understand that, as well as understand how much easier it was for her father to focus his worry on the choice of a maid than to consider what was really worrying him.

Eventually, though, Robert had been satisfied with an applicant whom Cora liked as well, and the new maid had moved into her quarters yesterday.

"Charlotte," Cora said now, "this is Miss Baxter,* my new lady's maid. Baxter, this is my eldest, Miss Charlotte Crawley. You'll find we're quite close." She smiled at her daughter, and Charlotte smiled in return.

But then Charlotte turned her gaze to Baxter, who was looking at her very… _intently_ , as though she weren't quite sure of her presence, or as though her existence were somehow a surprise. Had this maid not known her new mistress had children? Or was she not aware that Charlotte was adopted, and she was thus shocked to think that Cora had given birth some twenty years earlier? Charlotte found such speculation impertinent, and she looked rather severely at Baxter, who dropped her eyes demurely.

"Miss Crawley," she murmured in greeting with a soft nod, before turning her attention back to Cora. "Have I got everything, milady?"

"Yes, it looks quite correct," Cora said warmly. "And thank you, Baxter, for the surprise of the orange juice."

Orange juice? Charlotte's eyes fell on a glass of cloudy orange liquid on the tray. How exotic.

"Is your ladyship comfortable?" Baxter asked, surveying the pillows Cora was leaning against. There was a slight furrow in the maid's brow as she considered, and Charlotte knew instantly why her father had liked her and found herself liking her too. "Do you need another pillow? Is that enough to support your spine?"

Cora smiled. "Yes, Baxter, I'm quite all right. Thank you—that will be all for now."

"Do you like her so far?" Charlotte asked after Baxter had gone.

"Yes, I think so—she's a world away from O'Brien in how quiet she can be, and how calm…but that's rather peaceful, and she's very gentle, or at least she was when she undressed me last night."

"She seems to worry about you. That's probably why Papa likes her."

Cora laughed. "Yes, but I imagine she'll be used to me soon."

"Oh, I'm not so sure," Charlotte said, coming to take a seat on her father's side of the bed. Something in Baxter's manner had suggested that her concern was born not of unfamiliarity with a new and crippled employer but of genuine consideration and sympathy. "I think she's going to make a terrible fuss over you for as long as she's here, and Papa and I will love her for it." She leaned over to kiss Cora's cheek. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Well enough, darling." Cora returned the kiss. "It's lovely to see you first thing."

"I've brought you a telegram," Charlotte said, passing her the opened envelope. "Guess who are coming to dinner tonight?"

"Oh, Eleanor!" her mother exclaimed happily a second later. "How lovely! I'll speak with Mrs. Patmore as soon as I'm dressed…does your father know?"

"Yes, we read it together at breakfast."

"I suppose I'll have to tell her tonight," Cora said thoughtfully, laying her hand on her abdomen. Clarkson had guessed her to be about five months along, and while she was not big yet, she had a distinct belly that was not likely to be mistaken for anything but pregnancy.

Charlotte had nearly forgotten that Eleanor still did not know about the baby. Her parents' decision not to tell her sister by letter had seemed sensible, but she herself had known for so long that it was very strange to remember that her sister did not.

"She won't react as I did," Charlotte said, wanting to reassure her mother after the behavior that still made her blush. "She isn't…like me." And she wasn't, truly. Eleanor never worried, never considered the negative in anything, and Charlotte doubted she would blink at the news. It would not occur to her to worry about her own position in the family, and she would ignore any suggestions that the birth could be difficult, or worse. "She'll just be excited about the baby."

Cora laughed. "I hope so, but I'm sure it will come as a shock."

"But a much less frightening one than it was for the rest of us, now that you can give her a better picture of the medical implications." Charlotte did envy her sister not having to go through the agony of believing their mother to be living under a death sentence.

"Darling, I hate that I put you through all that worry. That you and your father are _still_ worried."

Charlotte shook her head. "It's not your fault." Cora shifted, arching her back with a slight grimace. "Can I get you anything, Mama?" Charlotte asked. "Will it help if I adjust your pillows?"

"No, sweetheart, I'm all right." Cora gave her a soft smile. "Just a passing pain." She rubbed her hand over her belly and sighed in a way that implied she was more uncomfortable than she admitted. Suddenly, her hand froze on her belly as her brow furrowed.

"Mama?"

But Cora did not respond, closing her eyes with another soft sigh.

"Mama, what's wrong?"

"I'm sure that's happened before," Cora whispered, more to herself than to her daughter. "I just didn't…" She turned to Charlotte and said softly, "The baby's moving."

"What?" The baby itself was so far from Charlotte's mind that she could not comprehend the words at first.

"The baby's moving," her mother repeated, rubbing her fingers over a small spot low on her belly, her eyes shining with tears. "I only knew it because I felt the movement against my hand…and then when I thought about it, I realized I _could_ feel a fluttering there, and I'm sure it's happened before; I just didn't have quite enough sensation internally to recognize it without my hand there as well."

Moving? Inside? Why, of course it was—of course babies would move inside their mothers. Charlotte had never considered it before, but of course they would. "I…" Her new brother or sister was suddenly real to her, real in a way the mere concept of him or her hadn't been. And before she could think, could consider that it might be selfish to replace her mother's hand with her own, she was doing just that, brushing Cora's hand away so that she could lay hers in its place and feel the light pressure of a foot or a hand thumping against the outside world.

"Oh, Mama," she breathed, suddenly enchanted. She looked up to see Cora looking not at her belly but at her, her eyes filling with tears as she gazed at Charlotte.

"I'm sorry," Cora whispered, brushing them away. "It's only…it's so lovely to watch my first baby feel the kicks of the baby I'm carrying."

Charlotte suddenly wanted to kiss them both—her sibling for announcing its presence, and her mother for so clearly declaring that she saw no differences in her two kinds of children—and she marveled that, for a few months at least, she _could_ kiss them both at once. She bent her head to press a light kiss to Cora's belly.

"Shall I go and get Papa?" she asked then. "He'll want to feel—"

"Oh, yes!" her mother exclaimed, laughing now. "Go and get Papa!"

* * *

Cora hid a smile at the sound she heard in the hallway—Robert's footsteps, running like a small boy's.

"Darling!" he exclaimed as he flung open her door. "Charlotte says—is it true—can you really…?"

She nodded, laughing at their shared excitement, laughing at his breathless enthusiasm, laughing at the joy on his face and in her heart.

He climbed into bed with her and stretched his hand toward her stomach, seeking permission with his eyes as she nodded again. Slowly—as though he thought he could startle the baby—he settled his hand onto her belly.

"Here," she murmured softly, for the air suddenly seemed too heavy for speech. She gently took his hand and scooted it slightly to the right, where she could feel a fluttering. "It's here." She watched as her husband felt an unborn child for the first time in his life, watched as his face flitted from concentration to disbelief to hope to exhilaration, watched as he closed his eyes.

"I never thought…" Robert whispered. "I–I just never…never thought…"

She hadn't either. Somehow, in all the worry, in all the stress, in all the shock, she had not thought about the fact that babies kicked, that she would at some point feel her child's movements. That her husband would be able to lay his hand against her belly and feel it with her. She felt silent tears snake out of her eyes as she watched him.

"How wonderful," he whispered, bending down to reverently kiss her stomach. "How _wonderful_."

Then he raised his gaze to her and saw her tears and her trembling lip. "Oh, darling," he murmured, wrapping her in his arms.

"I'm all right," she said against his neck, her tears falling faster now that he was holding her. "I'm all right. It's just…"

"I know," he said, his hand stroking her hair. "I know. I'm happy, too." Cora let herself rest there, stemming her tears, before she pulled back and kissed his cheek.

"Is it still moving?" he asked eagerly, and she nodded, taking his hand again. "Here," he went on, "lean back against me and let me hold you both." He helped her settle against him, her back to his chest, as he wrapped his arms around her, his hands caressing her belly, and she sighed, hoping they would sit like this all morning.

She felt Robert kiss her hair. "Darling, have I told you how beautiful your belly is?"

"Well, you've told me I'm very pretty pregnant." Yet he had not been near this fascinated with her stomach before.

"No." He kissed her again. "You're beautiful, Cora. Absolutely beautiful."

* * *

"Eleanor, darling!" Cora watched happily as her youngest— _no, middle,_ she corrected—child swept into her bedroom, an air of happiness and summer and romance clinging to her.

She had decided to meet with Eleanor alone and had told Robert to send her upstairs when she arrived, telling her her mother wanted to welcome her privately. Seated in her wheelchair, she'd then asked Baxter to bring her her embroidery, which she intended to use to screen her belly at the beginning of the conversation, suspecting it would be far too much of a shock to let Eleanor see it straight off, with no explanation.

"Mama!" Eleanor hurried to her and bent to embrace her warmly, and they kissed each other. "Oh, I am glad to be home and to see you!" She took a seat on the chaise across from Cora.

"And I'm glad to see you. Is that new?" Eleanor was shimmering in a silky blue evening dress with cascading rows of silver beads.

She smiled prettily. "Yes, we bought it in Paris."

"Your letters sounded as though you were having a very happy honeymoon."

"Oh yes, Mama! Oh, we saw such wonderful places, and it was so wonderfully warm and sunny."

"And your husband? Was he _wonderful_ , too?" Cora smiled, hoping fervently that her new son-in-law was far more interesting in bed than he was at the dinner table.

If the bright pink tinge in Eleanor's face was any indication, he was. "Yes, Mama," she murmured. "I'm very happily married."

"Good." She took her daughter's hand and squeezed it gently. "I asked your father to send you up here alone because I wanted to tell you something that I'm afraid will come as a bit of a shock. Darling, I…I'm expecting a baby."

"You're adopting again? How lovely—"

"No, darling." Cora shook her head. "I'm _pregnant_." She reached over and set the embroidery hoop on the chaise next to Eleanor, exposing her round belly…and then sat and watched as Eleanor stared at it, shock and disbelief flitting across her face to be replaced by joy.

"But you thought you couldn't have children!" she exclaimed, more pleasure than incredulity in her voice. "And Charlotte and I…" Another blush rose into Eleanor's face, and Cora hid a smile, remembering the conversation the girls had supposedly had. "But you can, you _clearly_ can, and…what a wonderful surprise! Oh, I _am_ happy for you!"

"Thank you, darling." Cora gave her the same explanation she had given Charlotte earlier in the summer, but stressed instead that she could likely give birth naturally, and, while her age and her frailty would certainly be complicating factors, there was no reason to assume she and the baby would not come through.

"You will, Mama, you will," Eleanor said with certainty. "You are stronger than you or Papa think, and you've come through so much already." Cora squeezed her hand again, not sure she entirely agreed but comforted at the words. It was, of course, typical Eleanor, and she should have expected no different: it was simply not in her character to focus on anything unpleasant or to worry about anything that had not come to pass.

"When are you going to have the baby?" she asked. "You look like you're several months gone."

"Around Christmastime, Clarkson thinks."

"What a lovely Christmas present for us all!" Cora leaned over to kiss her cheek at the sentiment. She was suddenly struck that she loved everything about the ways both her girls had reacted—she loved Charlotte for her sweet worry and for the fears that showed how desperately she loved being Cora's, and she loved Eleanor for openly sharing her joy.

"I really am very excited, Mama," Eleanor went on, reaching over to lay her hand on Cora's belly. "And I think this is going to be…marvelously fun."

Then she did something Cora did not at all expect.

"Because, Mama…" She lifted her hand from her mother's stomach, reaching instead to take Cora's hand and settle it onto her own abdomen. "I think I'm pregnant, too."

* * *

*Yes, it's our dear Baxter. I toyed with creating another OC, but we've got such a strong focus on an OC through Charlotte already. I also adore Baxter, and I felt like all the torture I've put Cora through in this AU warranted a lovely maid. However, the Baxter in this AU has no connection to Thomas, and no prison history—after having gotten the last maid fired, I didn't think he was in a position to suggest the new one, and I thought that Robert, who has been extremely careful with this maid, would have found and rejected any criminal background.


	21. Chapter 20

AN: So my original plan was 21 chapters (this one and then one more), but I decided the way I'd divided up events didn't really make much sense, and three chapters would be better. (End result is that this chapter is more of a transitional chapter than a dramatic one-apologies for that!) So the word count hasn't gotten vastly longer, but there will be one more chapter. Since I still want to finish the story by the end of next week, I'm hoping to make this a double update week and publish the next chapter in a few days. (Monday is a holiday in the U.S., so I should have a bit more time.)

* * *

 **Late September 1913**

"I wish there'd been time to put your legs up a bit more in the last few days, milady," Baxter said as she unwrapped Cora's calves and feet. "But the swelling's gone down a bit."

Cora had sensed that without looking. Days of parties and guests that had culminated in Charlotte and Matthew's wedding yesterday had meant that she'd neglected herself, and she'd not bothered to take time to sit with her feet up or let Baxter work her ankles. Gravity, lack of exercise, and pregnancy had now swelled her legs and feet, and she could sense it even in her paralyzed state—her vague awareness of her legs had made it miserably clear that something was very wrong, an awkward discomfort that she was not capable of fidgeting away from.

But the bride and groom had departed this morning, and the houseful of guests had left after luncheon, and Cora had gone upstairs at tea time to recline on the chaise, where Baxter was now fussing over her. The maid had suggested wrapping cabbage leaves against her skin, promising that it would reduce the swelling, and after an hour's time, Cora was significantly less puffy, with a tingling sense of relief in her body.

"Do you feel better, milady?" Baxter asked now, pressing her fingers lightly against Cora's left leg to examine the remaining swelling. "Can you sense it?"

Cora nodded. "Yes, I can, and the leaves did help—thank you."

"It's an old remedy for pregnant women, but in my experience it does have some merit," the maid said. "As does massage with lavender."

Cora had not bothered to ask Baxter—or any of the women she'd interviewed—how much experience she had with pregnancy, thinking it a very temporary situation, and assuming her own would be quite different from most ladies' anyway. Yet it had become quite clear quite quickly that Baxter knew what she was doing.

She moved now to the dressing table, where she poured a bit of the oil she'd brought from the village onto her hand, then turned back to Cora. "Would your ladyship mind if I sat on the chaise? I'd sit on the floor or on a stool, but I don't want to pull your feet downward."

Cora shook her head. "Of course not. Sit wherever you're comfortable."

Baxter took a seat at the opposite end of the chaise, settled Cora's feet into her lap, and began to massage the oil into her left foot.

"Thank you," Cora said softly, leaning against the hot water bottle the maid had placed between her back and the chair. Her spine had become steadily stiffer and achier as her belly had grown, and although she would not have admitted it, she was quite frightened at the thought of how she might feel in a couple months' time.

"Did you learn all this from your previous ladies?" she asked, pulling her thoughts away from the rest of the autumn.

Baxter gave her an odd look. "Why do you ask that, milady?"

"You seem very familiar with looking after expectant mothers, so I assumed you'd seen other ladies though their pregnancies. Have you not?"

Her maid smiled then. "Ah, your ladyship only _assumed_ …I was hoping I hadn't accidentally led you astray in my interview," she said. "The fact is, milady, I've only ever served ladies of a certain age, and unmarried ladies. No one both married _and_ young enough to have a child."

"Then how did you…"

Baxter smiled again. "I come from a large family, milady. There were always babies on the way."

It suddenly seemed that there were always babies on the way here, too, with Eleanor pregnant at the same time as her mother—she'd been correct in her suspicion and was expecting her own baby at the end of March. The thought made Cora want to burst with happiness. And now Charlotte was wed as well, and perhaps there would even be a third baby in the family soon.

"I suppose Miss Charlotte is nearly to London by now," Cora said, half to herself and half to Baxter. While Eleanor and Evelyn had taken the more traditional honeymoon route of France and Italy, Charlotte had hinted to Matthew that she was longing for something more exotic. Their destination remained a secret to her, but Cora and Robert knew that the couple was heading for Greece and then Turkey.

"Anna said that they were going to the Mediterranean, but that it was all to be a surprise for Mrs. Crawley."

Cora shook herself mentally at the strange sound of her daughter's new title. She wasn't sure what felt more odd—that Charlotte was now a _Mrs._ , or that her last name had not changed. "Yes, Mr. Crawley is taking her to first to Athens, then to Corfu, and then they're going to Constantinople."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Baxter exclaimed, and for a moment Cora wondered if she had ever been out of England. Few servants ever traveled more than fifty miles from their birthplace, although lady's maids and valets often had the privilege of accompanying their employers on holidays. "Do you know where she will celebrate her birthday?"

"Her birthday?" Cora's brow furrowed as she tried to think when she might have discussed this detail with her maid.

"I believe Mrs. Crawley told me that she would be twenty-three on the eighteenth of October."

"The twenty-second, but yes, she'll be twenty-three."

"I beg your pardon, milady," Baxter said quietly. "I must have jumbled the date."

Cora waved the error away. "It's no matter. Anyway, I think they'll still be in the Greek islands then." She sighed. "I can hardly believe they're both gone and married."

"I'm sure you can't, milady, but at least you do have another one on the way."

Cora smiled, caressing her belly. "Yes, Baxter, there is that." She closed her eyes, feeling her body relax in response to the touch she could not feel. "His lordship and I ought to discuss names," she said after a moment. "We haven't yet."

"Have you anything in mind, milady?"

"Perhaps…Mary," she said softly. "I've always thought Mary was a pretty name."

She heard the maid murmur her agreement, and Cora let herself rest then, her head against the back of the chaise. The next thing she knew, she was blinking awake at the sound of her bedroom door opening, disoriented and surprised to realize she'd slept.

"I'm sorry, Baxter; I hadn't meant to doze off," she said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"It's quite all right, milady," Baxter said quietly. "I was glad to see you were relaxed."

"And you probably needed that nap," she heard Robert say, and she turned to see him approaching her. Ah—so that was whom she'd heard come in. "I'm sorry I woke you, sweetheart." He kissed her hair, then stroked her cheek with the back of two fingers. "I just came up to see if you were all right. Would you like me to move you to the bed when Baxter's finished with your legs so you can sleep some more?"

"I'm nearly done, milord," Baxter said softly, and Cora looked down to see she'd finished massaging with the oil and was now making slow circles with her right ankle—an ankle that was considerably smaller than it had been originally.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About seven," Robert said. "Carson should ring the gong soon."

"Then I'll dress and go down to dinner," she said, feeling more awake by the second. "I want to have dinner with you, and I'm feeling much better now." She smiled at her maid. "Baxter's done wonders for my legs."

"I'm glad, darling. And thank you, Baxter," he said, nodding to the other woman as the gong sounded in the distance. He bent and kissed Cora again, stroking her belly lightly. "I'll change and then come back to take you downstairs."

By the time Robert returned, Baxter and a nurse had dressed Cora in one of the loose evening gowns that had been made to accommodate her pregnancy and seated her at the dressing table, where Baxter was arranging her hair. She was beginning to think that she looked rather silly dressing for dinner with her six-month belly, but Robert seemed to love everything she wore. His eyes met hers in the mirror as he stepped into the room, and she saw him smile.

"Darling, you look beautiful," he said, and she read his desire to kiss her, frustrated by the presence of her maid. "Absolutely beautiful."

Cora returned his smile. "Have you thought about names at all?"

"Names? For the baby? No, I haven't."

"Well, let's talk about it tonight. I've been thinking of a few. Baxter and I thought Mary was nice."

"Yes, that's certainly very pretty," he said as he took a seat in a chair.

"Or Sybil," she went on, sensing his lukewarm feelings. "And I like Edith, too, but I'm not sure I want another _E_ , so that's probably out."

"I agree with you on both—Sybil's nice, but no _E_ or _C_ names."

Cora fell silent, watching Baxter finish pinning her curls. She knew Robert was still worried for her and worried about the birth, but he had been so excited about the baby in the last month as they'd felt its kicks and movements together, and she'd expected far more enthusiasm about names. Did he dislike all of her suggestions? Or had his heart been set on something else?

"Perhaps…perhaps we could name her after your mama?" she offered as Baxter fastened a string of sapphires around her neck. "A little Violetmight be nice." And in truth, she would not mind naming her baby after her mother-in-law. As much as Violet had objected to their continued marriage after Cora's accident, the dowager countess had been good to her in later years.

Robert scowled. "Cora, we are _not_ naming this baby after my mother. We'll name it anything you like, except for Violet."

He clearly hadn't been harboring a secret desire to honor his mother. "Well, then," she said quietly, hoping he might suggest a name of his own. Yet the silence stretched on as Baxter finished with her jewels and passed her a pair of gloves. "Thank you, Baxter," she said, dismissing the maid. "That will be all."

"Do _you_ have a name in mind?" she asked, almost sharply, as the door shut behind Baxter.

Robert did not answer for a moment. "I do, in fact," he said softly. "I know exactly what I'd like to name this baby. You won't like it, but there's not a question in my mind that it's the right name."

"I won't dislike it," she promised. "Tell me, please."

"Cora."

"Yes, what? What do you want to call her?"

"No, that's it—I want to name the baby _Cora_."

"No," she said immediately, instinctively. It felt far too prideful to call a child after herself. "No, I don't want to use my own name."

"And why not?" he asked calmly. "Why shouldn't we name her after her lovely mama?"

"Because…because…because it's…arrogant, I suppose. I don't think I quite… That is, if we name her after someone…surely there's someone more…deserving. It doesn't seem _right_ to name her after me."

"More deserving? Darling, you were willing from the beginning to give your life for hers. You haven't blinked at carrying her, despite the fact that it's difficult and dangerous for you. And all this is on top of how strong I think you've been to spend nearly a quarter-century in a wheelchair. Of course you're deserving of having a baby named after you."

She blushed. "I–I'm just not sure I…"

"Please, Cora." He stood and joined her at the mirror, resting his hands on her shoulders and bending down to kiss her temple. "I adore you, and I so want to give this baby your name. Please, darling, let us do this."

It seemed almost childish to refuse, especially in light of how little Robert asked for, and how much he did for her.

"All right…if it matters so much to you, then I don't mind."

He kissed her again. "Thank you, love…are you ready to go down?" She nodded, and he lifted her.

"What names did you have in mind for a boy?" he asked as he carried her down the back staircase outside her bedroom.

"I hadn't really…thought about that," she told him, although in truth, the suggestion that perhaps this baby was a boy had occupied her thoughts daily.

"You're hoping for a girl." It was a statement, not a question.

She knew that deep down, Robert still longed for a son, but… "I worry about upsetting everything if there's a male heir after all these years. Charlotte, and now Matthew…"

"Charlotte has Matthew's money," he said, and his tone was not unkind or unsympathetic. "She'll live quite well on that, and her daughter's portion wouldn't be ungenerous."

"Yes, but…it seems so unfair to take away the inheritance she's expected all her life." Cora knew that Matthew's own finances were more than adequate, but she could not quite imagine Charlotte as never more than an upper middle class solicitor's wife.

"I don't disagree, but that's how it is for every heiress whose mother later has a son. It's how it would have been for Queen Victoria if she'd had a brother."

"It might not be a boy," she said, hoping fervently that it was not.

"No, but we ought to consider names all the same."

Almost frightened that even thinking of male names could somehow make the child in her belly a boy, Cora had shut them out of her mind. "We could try to think of some tonight, if you don't have any you're sure about," she said.

"I don't, but we've got months, and I can think of something else I'd much rather do tonight." They had by now stepped into the great hall, where they were within easy earshot of servants, and so he whispered it instead.


	22. Chapter 21

Robert stirred in the middle of the night, a sinking feeling in his chest as he realized he was awake. It had been his habit for twenty-some years, when he stirred to roll over in bed, to wake Cora and turn her as well. The German doctor who had operated on her after the accident had stressed the importance of doing this at least once a night, and every other doctor the family had ever had concurred—with no sensation in the lower half of her body, Cora would feel no compulsion to change her position on her own, and she was thus at risk for pressure sores that could develop easily into deadly infections if she lay in the same position all night.

It was a practice that he'd always known was more disruptive to her sleep than to his, for he did it when he naturally awakened, but at times when she might be in any stage of deep sleep. Yet Cora did not complain, and she often did not fully wake, merely snuggling up to him as he turned her and then drifting back to sleep.

At least, that had been the case before her pregnancy. Clarkson now estimated Cora to be a month or so from delivery, and the last few weeks had been difficult ones. Her body ached, the weight of her belly and the changes in her body were playing havoc with her spine, and she barely slept as it was…and Robert felt like the worst husband in the world when he purposely woke her, making her groan in pain as he turned her.

He'd begged Clarkson for a few weeks' reprieve from this duty…was there really such great risk that he couldn't let her lie peacefully at night until the baby was born? But no—the doctor had been adamant that pregnancy made pressure sores more, not less, likely, and it was essential that he continue moving her as he always had.

"Darling?" he whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder. He shook it gently. "Darling, I need to turn you."

Cora was lying facing him, and he saw her eyes flutter and then shut again. "No," she murmured, her grip on her pillow tightening, as though holding onto her hard-won sleep. "Please no."

Oh, how he wanted to leave her in peace. But he forced himself to get up—at eight months pregnant, she was too big and awkward for him to easily roll her over while in bed himself—and walk around to her side of the bed.

He carefully slid an arm underneath her at her waist. "Sweetheart, can you lean backward so I can get you onto your other side?"

She didn't shift an inch. "Robert," he heard her choke after an eternal second, "please don't make me move."

Oh God, now she was crying. How he _hated_ this! He cursed himself for getting her pregnant, cursed Clarkson for being mistaken about her fertility, cursed every warning he had ever heard about pressure sores, cursed the horse that had stumbled on the fence all those years ago.

He took his arm out from under her, wanting to calm her first. "Shh," he soothed, rubbing long, firm strokes up and down her back. "It's all right. Just relax."

"I _can't_ ," she sobbed. "You keep _waking_ me! Oh, please stop waking me—please stop!"

He wanted to crawl under the rug at that. "Darling, I haven't any choice," he said softly. "It's not safe to leave you in one position all night."

She did not respond, and he let her cry as he continued to rub, wincing at the tightness he could feel in her muscles. He doubted he'd want to move either if he were her.

"I know," she said after a few minutes. Her sobs had slowed, but her speech was still thick. "I know you have to…it's just…it's so hard to fall asleep, and then when I do sleep, you wake me, and I'm _so_ exhausted!"

"I know, darling," he said softly. "I know."

"I'm sorry I'm so difficult," she said, and he could hear the guilt in her voice.

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathed, feeling his heart tear at her words. He bent and kissed her hair. "You're not difficult—but you're allowed to be as difficult as you need to be."

She drew a shaky breath. "You can turn me now."

Robert slid his arm back underneath her, turning her hips as she leaned back so that she was lying flat, and then helped her shift again onto her left side. She hissed as he moved her, her face crumpling as she settled into position.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she began to weep again. "It's just…it _hurts_."

"Oh, _Cora_." He brushed her hair back and laid a kiss on her temple. "My sweet darling." It hurt him, too, to watch her hurt, a dull, throbbing pain in his chest. "Here, let's fix your pillows." Months ago, Baxter had shown him how to build Cora a nest of pillows in bed, telling him that keeping them between her knees and using one to prop up her belly would ease the strain on her spine. And it did help, Cora claimed…although nothing seemed to help enough.

After rearranging the pillows, he climbed back into bed, sitting up behind her so that he could work his hands over her back. He knew it would help, but not as much as it had a few months ago. Not now that the forced sway in her posture had pinched her damaged nerves, not now that she was straining to carry the weight of a nearly full-term baby.

"My spine," she sobbed. "It's so much worse than it ever was. I–I don't think I can make it, Robert. I don't think I can!"

He didn't know how she could last another thirty days, either, for another month sounded like an eternally long time. And Clarkson wasn't sure…perhaps it would be longer. The thought terrified him, and, as much as Robert feared the birth, he was praying fervently for an early delivery, for he desperately wanted it over so that Cora could heal.

But surely even an early baby was at least another fortnight away!

"You're almost done," he forced himself to say, his fingers trying to press into a muscle that felt like a stone. "You've come so far, and there isn't much more, darling." She didn't respond, and he was glad for it, thinking she might be justified in striking him for calling another month "not much more."

"What if…" he began a moment later, "what if…I gave you a bit of laudanum?" Cora had been given the drug when she'd first been injured, but she'd quickly begun to refuse it, saying she didn't like the hazy way it made her feel. To his knowledge, she hadn't taken it since, and he was glad of it, knowing addiction was all too common. But now he was desperate to stop the tears that he suspected had been building for weeks.

"No!" she exclaimed. "No, I don't want that."

"Darling, I think it would—"

"The baby—I think it wouldn't be good for the baby. You wouldn't give a baby laudanum, would you?"

No, he probably wouldn't.

They fell into silence, Cora's sobs slowing as he worked. "Are you feeling better, darling?" he asked with a kiss to her shoulder.

"Yes, it's easing," she said quietly, "but it'll start up again as soon as you stop."

"Then I won't stop." He pressed another kiss to her shoulder. "You try to go back to sleep, and I won't stop rubbing until you do. Just close your eyes and rest."

"Robert," she said after another few minutes of silence, "can we talk about something that's worrying me?"

"If it will upset you, let's wait till morning. But if it's keeping you up, go ahead."

"It's the latter," she said. "I lay awake thinking about it when I can't sleep."

He kissed her shoulder again, signaling for her to continue.

"It's…I'm wondering if I…it might be very _wrong_ , but…I think maybe we should sack Baxter."

" _What?"_ Had Cora lost her mind? Why on earth should she want to sack a maid who'd been so very, very kind? "Has she displeased you in some way?"

"No, no…I–I'm afraid I've gotten hysterical because of the baby, and I'm not thinking clearly…"

He was suddenly afraid of that, too. To his knowledge, Baxter had taken excellent care of his wife. He'd liked her from the beginning, at a time when he'd begun to despair of finding a maid he felt he could trust after the O'Brien fiasco. In fact, he'd decided he favored her before he'd even spoken with her himself, having overheard the last few minutes of her interview with Cora.

Cora had asked if she'd had any questions about the position, as she had asked each candidate. Most of the ones Robert had overheard had asked about the increase of their responsibilities compared to a lady's maid to an able-bodied woman—how much Cora could do for herself, how much would be required of them, what role the nurses played, and so on. He did not begrudge them that, for obviously they would want to be certain of what the position entailed.

But the first question out of Baxter's mouth had given him pause. "Does your injury still pain you, milady?" he'd heard her ask. "Is there anything that eases it? I'll want to help you, if I can."

At the realization that her first thought had been what Cora's handicap meant for Cora, and not for herself, he'd decided she must be hired immediately.

"Baxter's been very kind," he now said carefully, "and she's always seemed to genuinely care for you. Is there something in her work that's caused you to doubt this?"

"No, she's wonderful! And that's why I feel so guilty—I don't want to sack a woman who's been a very good maid. And I don't—I don't even know if I should worry as I do, because I wonder if I haven't just made it all up, but…but…"

"What is it, darling? What do you think you've made up?" He tried to imagine some wild, criminal backstory for the maid, but nothing in his mind could have prepared him for Cora's next words.

"I think," she said in a small voice, "that she might be Charlotte's natural mother."

"What? Cora, she doesn't even look like Charlotte." It frightened him to think Cora's pregnancy was breeding such irrational thoughts, but he could imagine little basis for such a bizarre theory. "Baxter has an almost _Latin_ look to her, and you know how fair Charlotte is."

"Baxter isn't that dark, Robert," she argued. "It's mostly her hair. And children don't always look like their mothers."

No, of course they didn't. He took a deep breath. "Why do you think this, darling?"

"It's only…there have been so very many odd things. When she first saw Charlotte she–she stared at her in the strangest way. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but when I look back on it—"

"If she gave Charlotte up as an infant, how would she have recognized her?"

"I don't think she did recognize her—I think perhaps she already knew she'd be here, and when she first laid eyes on her, she couldn't help but stare."

A long look that Cora herself admitted she'd barely noticed at the time was hardly evidence as far as he was concerned, and he said nothing.

"And she seems so very capable with pregnancy," Cora went on. "But she tells me she's never had a pregnant lady, so I can't help wondering if she hasn't given birth herself."

"Well, perhaps she has." It would not be unbelievable to imagine a maid falling pregnant, hiding the disgrace, and making her way back into service after giving up the child. For all they knew, Baxter might have even been married at some point and given birth legitimately. "That doesn't mean her child was Charlotte."

"I know, but…she knew Charlotte's birthday, or rather, she _almost_ knew Charlotte's birthday, which made it even stranger." She paused. "Right after the wedding, Baxter mentioned Charlotte turning twenty-three on October eighteenth."

"But her birthday's the twenty-second."

"Yes, of course, and I told her that. She said she thought Charlotte had mentioned the date to her but that she must have jumbled it."

"Then I'm sure she did. Your birthday's the eighteenth of _July_ —perhaps she knew that and combined the two. People jumble dates all the time."

"You don't find it odd? Why would Charlotte have even discussed her birthday with my maid? I'm not sure I believe she did."

"I'm not sure I understand what you think it proves that Baxter didn't quite have the birthday right. If she _were_ the natural mother, wouldn't you think she'd get the date right? Oh…" His hands stilled momentarily as the realization hit him.

"You think she _did_ get the date right, don't you?" she said.

"Not necessarily," he said carefully, starting to rub her back again. He still thought Cora's theory too far-fetched for his own credulity, but he saw how the circumstantial evidence had aligned and troubled her. "Yes, we know Charlotte wasn't born on the twenty-second…we _got_ her on the twenty-second, so her birth would have had to be sometime before that." The Foundling Hospital had had no birthdate noted for Charlotte, and thus her birth certificate had been filled out with the date of her adoption instead. She could not, it was assumed, have been more than a few days old anyway.

"Yes, and it could very easily have been the eighteenth!" Cora exclaimed, the pitch of her voice rising. "She arrived at the hospital on the nineteenth, and I think she was likely born the day before."

He hadn't remembered that. "You knew the date of her arrival?"

"No, I went back through old letters I'd saved, and I found the one the hospital first sent us about her. They said she'd come in on the nineteenth of October. And I looked back at what Baxter sent when she applied," she went on, talking faster now, "because I wanted to see if she'd even been in London at the right time. And she was—she said she worked as a lady's maid in the capital from 1888 to 1901."

If Baxter had made this comment at the time of the wedding, then it had weighed on his wife's mind for two months as she'd dug for evidence to support her theory. He sighed. "Cora, I think this is all _very_ coincidental and circumstantial."

"But it might not be! It might _not_ be…and I just…I don't want…"

"Shh," he said. "Even if this is true—and I don't think it is—Baxter's no threat to you. Charlotte knows you're her mother, and she loves you. Nothing's going to change that."

"It's not that I…I don't mind if she knows who her natural mother is; I don't! I just…I don't want that woman, whoever she is, living in our house; I don't want Charlotte growing close to her! And I'm so afraid it's Baxter." There were tears in her voice again, and he heard her stifle a sob. "I know it's selfish; I just…"

He kissed her neck. "It's not selfish, darling—it's not selfish to fear losing Charlotte, although I promise that won't happen." It was irrational, perhaps, but he could see how, in the stress and discomfort of Cora's condition, her imagination had run away with her. "Please don't cry. I'll speak with Baxter in the morning, if that will settle your mind."

"Will you?"

"Of course, darling. I'll ask about all of this and see what she has to say, and then we'll go from there. Now sleep." He kissed her neck again. "You need rest."

* * *

"Milord?" Robert looked up from his desk to see Baxter lingering in the doorframe. "Mrs. Hughes said you asked for me."

"I did, I did. Please—come in."

Hesitantly, she made his way toward the desk to stand a respectful distance in front of him. "Is her ladyship all right, milord?"

Bless her. He could not have imagined that that would have been O'Brien's first question had she been unexpectedly called before the earl.

"Yes, her ladyship is quite all right, thank you. She is, however, troubled, and I hoped to put her mind at ease."

"Yes, milord?"

He thought for a moment, unsure exactly how to approach the subject and not wanting to insult her. "Lady Grantham seems to have gotten the impression that you have some sort of… _connection_ to Miss Charlotte…to Mrs. Crawley."

"Connection, milord?" Baxter's face was an innocent blank. "I barely had time to know Mrs. Crawley at all before she left for her honeymoon."

"Of course, of course," he said. "But did you…you didn't know her before you came here?"

"How could I have, milord?"

As unfounded as he believed Cora's suspicions to be, he could not help but be struck that this was not a denial. "Miss Baxter, I do not wish to insult you—and I will say that I don't put much stock in this theory—but her ladyship believes you're Mrs. Crawley's natural mother."

He felt himself blushing at his own words, but then Baxter did the most unexpected thing: she laughed.

"I'm sorry, milord, but I wouldn't have thought…no, of course I'm not her mother. I'm not her mother at all. But…I did know her mother, sir."

Robert gripped the edge of the desk hard, too shocked to correct the title she'd given the other woman and suddenly almost afraid. What had been the plan? "Is that why you sought a position in this house? To have access to Mrs. Crawley?"

"No, no, milord! No, I give you my word, no. I didn't have any idea who her ladyship's eldest daughter was before I was hired. But when I saw her…you could have knocked me over with a feather."

"Had you seen Mrs. Crawley elsewhere, and you recognized her?" His mind was now racing with images of spies who had lurked behind bushes in the village for years, watching his daughter grow up.

"Not since her birth, milord—not since I left her at the Foundling Hospital."

Had the woman standing before him truly been the one who had handed an infant Charlotte off, to pass into their arms three days later? His head spun at the thought, but before he could question her, she went on.

"But as I said, milord, I knew her mother. And she's the spitting image of her—when I first saw Mrs. Crawley in her ladyship's room, I thought I'd seen a ghost."

"Her natural mother," he corrected. He would not cede the title that rightfully belonged to Cora, rightfully belonged to she who had raised Charlotte. "And I take it she is deceased?"

"Yes, milord. Died of influenza that had become pneumonia, a good ten years after Mrs. Crawley was born."

It troubled him to note that this information pleased him, as there was now no other mother for Cora to worry over.

"And you are sure Mrs. Crawley is this woman's child?" he asked, but of course she was sure. _He_ was sure. She had asked Cora about Charlotte's birthdate to confirm what she already knew.

"I am, milord. I asked her ladyship about her birthdate, and when she said it was the twenty-second, at first I thought I must have the wrong young woman, and she merely looked strangely like a woman to whom she was no relation. But then I realized her ladyship likely never had Mrs. Crawley's real birthdate, and perhaps you celebrate on a day near it…perhaps the day you adopted her."

He nodded. "We do. The day we adopted her."

"She was born on the eighteenth of October," Baxter added unnecessarily. "And I took her to the Foundling Hospital the next morning."

It suddenly occurred to him that there might be solid proof of this, proof beyond Baxter's words. "Have you got…?"

She nodded. "Yes, milord. Would you like to see it?"

"Of course, of course," he said, suddenly excited to uncover his daughter's history. "Please, go and fetch it if it's here."

Baxter dropped a short curtsy and left, returning with a faded, striped red ribbon,* which she passed to him. "Is it a match, milord?"

"I'm sure it will be." All Robert could remember about the ribbon attached to Charlotte's admission form was that it had been red, but he had no doubt that this was the other half of it. "Her ladyship has the forms in her dressing table, but I'm sure this will match when we show it to her."

"Will her ladyship not be upset to know this? I've known it for months, but I haven't wanted to upset her in her condition."

"No, I don't think so," he said thoughtfully. It was the idea of Charlotte growing close to a natural mother who now lived at Downton that had so frightened Cora, he thought, not the idea of knowing Charlotte's history. Indeed, they'd wondered many times about the women who had given birth to both their children. "I think she'll be pleased to have it, and to hear your story. Who was this natural mother?" he asked. "How were you acquainted? Was it a relative?" It suddenly hit him that perhaps Baxter was even Charlotte's aunt.

But the maid laughed again. "Oh no, milord! Heavens, no. She was my lady."

He started, for Cora's statement that Baxter had never served an expectant mother had erased that possibility from his mind. "Did you not tell her ladyship that none of your ladies had had babies while you were in their employ?"

Baxter blushed. "No, milord. I didn't tell her that, not exactly. I told her all of my ladies had been past childbearing age, or unmarried—as this lady was. Her ladyship drew her own conclusions, as I'd hoped she might. I did not wish to lie to her, but…my former lady's pregnancy was not widely known, and I did not want to spread rumors, even so long after her death."

Of course she would be loyal. "Charlotte's mother was a _lady_ , then," he said, considering the idea. It was perhaps the most surprising bit of all of this—he and Cora had always envisioned her as an impoverished mother who could not feed one more mouth, or a fallen woman in no position to keep a baby, or a young working class girl desperate to hide her shame. Wealthier women generally had better ways of settling unwanted children than foundling homes.

Baxter smiled sadly. "Yes, milord, she was. And she wanted—she wanted to give the baby to a family, and she had married friends who she thought might have taken it, but her own mother wouldn't hear of it. Said she wouldn't be able to keep quiet about it—perhaps she wouldn't have—and the family was desperate for the scandal not to get out. My lady was the only daughter, and they'd had—they still had—such high hopes for her marriage. And the natural father—I never knew who he was, but I gathered he'd been a servant in another household. No one she could marry. So I was sent off with the baby the next day, to deliver it to London's Foundling Hospital. I'm not proud of it, milord, because my lady _did_ want the baby, but if I hadn't taken it one of the housemaids would have. And I wanted—I wanted to be sure my lady was given the ribbon."

"Why did she give birth in England? In London, of all places?" He'd always understood that the thing to do in these cases was to take a lengthy holiday abroad.

"That had been arranged—her parents had intended to send us both to France. But my lady got so ill during her pregnancy that she couldn't travel, and she refused to risk it—she was afraid to lose the baby, you see."

The baby, Robert marveled, that was ruining this young woman's life. "She did love it, milord," Baxter went on. "She wanted it, but…"

"But her parents were determined to save her reputation." Guilt was creeping over him that he likely would have insisted on the same thing for an unmarried Charlotte or Eleanor. How wrong and heartless that seemed now.

"Yes. I brought her back the ribbon, milord, and she kept it with her always. Talked of the baby often—Jane, she'd called her. Wondered what she was doing, where she was living… I confess I wondered about her, too, milord, and never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I might one day attend her wedding! Or wait upon her new mother—I'm glad to look after the woman who became Jane's mother.

"My lady knew Jane had been given to a family—I'd gone back to the hospital a few weeks later to check on her and been told she'd been adopted. She was so, so pleased to know her baby would grow up in a real home, but she was never the same. She did want Mrs. Crawley, milord—in another world, she would have happily been her mother. I hope it isn't too bold, but I think Mrs. Crawley was very much loved, and very much wanted, by all of her parents—you and her ladyship _and_ her natural mother. She's always been very much loved."

"It's not too bold," Robert said quietly, moved at the thought. "What became of your lady?"

"Very little, I'm sorry to say. Never married—never had much interest. Her parents passed away, and then she too died young…and when she died, she gave me the ribbon, and asked me to find Jane. I'd decided years ago that would be impossible—the hospital could or would tell me nothing—and so I can't tell you how shocked I was, and how glad, to suddenly stumble upon her."

"Had she wanted you to tell Mrs. Crawley—Jane, as she called her—what her history was?"

"Not exactly, milord. She wanted me to tell her the news of her inheritance."

* * *

*I learned at the Museum of London this spring (where I saw one on display) that when a foundling was left at the hospital, an admission form was filled out with a list of the child's birthmarks and the clothes he or she was wearing. Then a ribbon was cut in two, with half stuck to the form and the other half given to the person who had dropped the baby off. The idea was that the staff would know which child belonged to which mother if the mother ever came back, but it was very, very rare for a woman to return.

AN: Just a heads-up that it may take be a bit more than a week to write the final chapter, because I want to be sure to get it right. But it definitely won't take me more than 2 weeks-I have someone from the fandom coming to see me (you know who you are ;-) ), and right after that I start grad school, so I definitely have a deadline of June 15 to get this story finished! :-)


	23. Chapter 22

AN: I've become the boy who cried wolf about final chapters, but I've written the rest of the story, and it was an absolute behemoth, and I realized it was WAY too long for one chapter. (Also, a large chunk of it was the birth, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that should be its own chapter anyway.) So here's the almost-final chapter, with the other coming later this week.

* * *

"Darling!" Cora exclaimed as Eleanor stepped into her room. "You're positively glowing!" In the weeks since she had last seen her younger daughter, Eleanor's flat stomach had blossomed into a distinctive bump.

"Am I?" Eleanor laughed. "I'm not sure I feel like I'm glowing, but Evelyn says the same thing."

Charlotte and Matthew were due to return from their honeymoon and dine at Downton, and the Napiers had come as well to see them. The latter couple had arrived several hours early, closer to teatime than dinner, and Cora presumed that Robert had directed Eleanor to come and see her in her bedroom, where she was spending an increasing amount of time. She expected to give birth within the next couple weeks, and at this point in her pregnancy it was easier to move as little as possible. Thus she was often still in bed at this point in the afternoon, reclining against a pile of pillows as she was today.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Cora asked.

"A bit tired and achy, but I'm all right—the doctor says I'm more than halfway there. And Evelyn and I couldn't be any more excited."

Cora swallowed a smile at the thought of Evelyn ever being excited by anything.

"But what about you?" Eleanor leaned down to kiss her mother's cheek. "Papa says you have not been at all well."

No, she wasn't. She wasn't well at all, but she'd rather the girls not hear about it. "Papa exaggerates…"

"Does he?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you're in bed in the middle of the afternoon, because Papa exaggerates? He says you're in a great deal of pain, and I can tell he's right by looking at your eyes."

Cora sighed. Of course she was in pain, with the nerves near her injury on fire and the rest of her back seizing at every movement. "I'll be all right, sweetheart," she said. "I wish he hadn't said anything—I didn't want you to be frightened for your own pregnancy, because it isn't the same."

Eleanor laughed softly. "I'm not frightened—I'm not the one with the smashed-up spine." She kissed Cora again, lightly caressing the belly that held her sibling, and sighed. "Poor love. I promise Charlotte and I will both fuss over you the whole time we're here."

Cora smiled. "It's wonderful enough just to have you back at Downton, and your sister soon, too." She'd been eagerly looking forward to today, knowing her daughters were the best medicine in the world. "And I'd rather fuss over you," she said, reaching out to lay her hand on Eleanor's much-smaller belly. How much more pleasant it was to have her first grandchild to think about than to focus on the spasms in her own muscles! "Is he kicking today? You said in your last letter that you'd started to feel movement."

"No, not today, unfortunately. I'm quite desperate for him to move a bit before we leave Downton, because I do so want you to be able to feel him."

"Oh, I hope he will…you will move for your granny, won't you?" Cora said softly to her daughter's belly, prompting a laugh from her. Then Eleanor pressed her hand against her side, stretching discreetly.

"Darling, are you all right?" Cora suspected that the desire to take care of her babies would never fade, even if they had babies of their own.

"Just a slight pain—"

"You're still wearing your corset, aren't you?"

"Mama…"

" _Aren't_ you?" Cora had shed hers immediately after Clarkson had told her she was pregnant, but she suspected that Eleanor, like most women who had not reached the final months of their pregnancies, was still wearing the uncomfortable garment.

Eleanor sighed. "It just feels so very _awkward_ to go without it."

"And it feels even more awkward to keep it on. Did you bring any tea gowns?" Cora asked, suggesting the afternoon dresses that were not traditionally worn with corsets.

"Yes, but we've only just arrived, so I'm sure my maid is only just getting into the trunks—"

"Then ring for Baxter, and she can bring you one of mine from a few months ago. Why don't you have her help you change and then lie down here while we talk?" She was not sure Eleanor had been aware she was doing it, but Cora had seen her glance more than once at Robert's side of the bed, and thus she was not surprised when Eleanor agreed immediately and reached for the bell pull.

The younger woman was soon dressed by Baxter in one of Cora's tea gowns from the middle of her own pregnancy, and she climbed in next to her mother, stretching like a cat as she lay down. "Oh, this does feel lovely after jolting around on the train ride here," she said, "and your bed is heavenly." She sighed contentedly, curling up on her side.

"Good, I'm glad you're comfortable, sweetheart." Cora had had Baxter help her lie down as well so that she could face Eleanor easily, and she leaned forward to kiss her forehead. "Is that gown all right? Does it fit your belly well?"

Eleanor was carefully examining the lace on the sleeve. "Yes, perfectly. It's nice."

"Take it, if you like it. I don't expect to ever be five months pregnant again, but I hope you will be, many times."

"Yes, I hope so," Eleanor said with a laugh. "Perhaps I'll change my mind after I've birthed this one, but I think I want a nursery that's just bursting with little Napiers. Thank you, Mama."

Before Cora could respond, there was a sharp and sudden jab in her own side, and she gasped.

"Mama?"

She shook her head, wincing at the continued pressure and the tightening she could feel in her back muscles in response. "I'm all right, darling—your brother or sister has just shoved an elbow into my ribs. I'm afraid you won't find your baby's movements nearly as nice once he gets bigger and has less room."

Eleanor laid her hand gently against Cora's ribs, her face lighting up when she found the spot. "Oh, I do feel that! Yes, I can tell your baby's quite strong. Ready to come out soon, I expect."

"She'll get no argument from me," Cora muttered.

"Shh, little one," Eleanor murmured, slowly rubbing her hand over her mother's belly. "Settle down and give Mama some peace. She hasn't been well, and we must be very gentle with her."

Cora closed her eyes as Eleanor soothed both her and the baby, the jabbing sensation growing lighter as the child relaxed in response to its sister's touch.

"Is this helping?" she heard Eleanor ask, her voice sweet and soft.

"Yes, darling, thank you."

"Does your baby have a name yet?"

"If it's a boy, we're thinking of William, for the doctor who operated on me after my accident. And if it's a girl…" She opened her eyes to see Eleanor's reaction to the name she still could not fully endorse. "…your father insists upon naming her Cora."

"Oh, how lovely!" Eleanor exclaimed, delight on her face. "Of course he does, and I think he's entirely right. I almost want you to name it Cora if it's a _boy_ , too."

Cora laughed. "I definitely draw the line there. Have you and Evelyn talked about names?"

"Yes, and after much arguing, we've reached a decision." Her eyes sparkled. "For a boy, I wanted to name it Evelyn after my husband, and he didn't want that, but he finally let me have my way. We fought more over the girl's name, because he wanted to call it Caroline after his mother, and I wanted to call it Cora after mine." Eleanor grinned at her.

"I hope you didn't win that argument, in the case that we both have girls—three Cora's is far too many for one family."

"No, we compromised," Eleanor went on. "If it's a girl, it will be _Cara_."

"That's a beautiful name, sweetheart." Cora took Eleanor's hand from her stomach—the baby had now stilled completely—and raised it to her lips for a kiss. "I'm honored to be part of it, and I'm honored to have my name merged with Caroline's. Evelyn's mother was a very kind woman."

Eleanor sighed. "I do miss Lady B. I think she would have been a lovely mother-in-law."

"Yes, I imagine she would have been," Cora said, thinking of the friend who had been the only aristocrat to acknowledge her when she'd first been injured and who had died a few years earlier.

"I'm rather hoping for a boy, though," Eleanor continued. "A girl would be a bit more fun, I think, but it would be nice to know that, whatever happens from here, I've already provided the heir." She paused. "Do you know what you want?"

"I'm praying fervently for a girl—it's so much less complicated that way, and I feel so guilty about your sister."

"Although the issue of Charlotte's fortune seems to have resolved itself, from what you said in your letter," Eleanor said.

"Yes, her natural mother has apparently left her a sizable inheritance that I imagine would fund a very nice home, should she and Matthew want to use it that way. So I suppose in one sense that that's all the same."

Eleanor grinned. "I wouldn't underestimate Charlotte's desire for _two_ fortunes."

Cora wanted to laugh, but the mention of two fortunes, coming from her younger daughter, unsettled her. She understood that the English did not usually divide their money between their children, but coming from a culture where she and Harold had both been given equal portions, it had always seemed strange to her that Charlotte should inherit all of Downton while Eleanor was granted a small dowry and then expected to make her own way in the world.

"Darling," she asked now, "does it trouble you for Charlotte to be an heiress?" And now she was an heiress twice over, if the baby was another girl. "Did it trouble you growing up?" She was not sure what they would do about it if Eleanor said yes—they could hardly promise that her own natural mother was also a gentlewoman who had left behind a substantial inheritance, nor could they tell Charlotte they would be giving her sister the Levinson fortune since she herself had found a substitute.

But if the blank look on Eleanor's face were any indication, she no more questioned the British way than Cora questioned the American one. "I'm not the eldest," she said simply. "Of course she's the heiress."

"You don't mind that she—"

"I have my own fortune now, you know," Eleanor interrupted, smiling. "I'm going to be a viscountess."

Of course she was, and the Napiers were far from impoverished. Eleanor had done as all English aristocratic daughters were meant to do, marrying into another wealthy family—and, Cora noted thankfully, she had married happily.

"Are you going to tell Charlotte tonight?" Eleanor asked.

"Yes…I suppose I will. I'll sit her down separately, the way I did when I told you about the baby."

"We both ought to go on honeymoons more often," Eleanor said with a laugh. "One always comes home to such exciting news."

"What do you think…she'll think?" Cora asked hesitantly. She was in truth quite nervous at the thought of telling Charlotte about her natural mother and not at all sure what sort of reaction to expect.

"I don't know," Eleanor said thoughtfully. "She's rather hard to predict, isn't she?"

"Do you think she wants to know who her natural mother is?" Cora went on, suspecting that, as a fellow adoptee, Eleanor could more closely imagine Charlotte's feelings than anyone else. "Do _you_ want to know?"

"I don't think I care either way…I'm not longing to know, but it wouldn't upset me to be told. It just…it doesn't matter to me. I'd think Charlotte cares more than I do, though—she always cares more than I do. She seems to care so very much about _everything_."

Cora laughed gently, aware that Charlotte's intensity, compared to Eleanor's casual gaiety, had always meant that her daughters often found each other exasperating.

"You shouldn't worry about it, though," Eleanor went on. "Neither of us is the least bit confused about who our real mother is, Mama. I don't think Charlotte will be any more than curious about her origins. She certainly isn't going to love anyone else the way she loves you."

"Thank you, darling," Cora murmured, kissing her forehead.

"We both love you very much," Eleanor said warmly. "I'm awfully glad I'm yours."

Cora could say nothing to that, instead stroking her hand over the light brown curls that Baxter had unpinned before Eleanor had lain down. It had always troubled her to remember that, had she not thought to adopt—had she not had the accident she otherwise so regretted—or had Robert not agreed to the plan, Charlotte and Eleanor would not have been hers. Nor would these have been her daughters had she contacted the Foundling Hospital a month earlier or later and been given different babies. She often tried to imagine what might have happened to her girls had they not grown up at Downton, and the thought always hurt her heart.

By now, they would both have been out of the Hospital for some years, likely having been apprenticed to learn a trade, placed in service, or given a job in a factory. Eleanor might very easily have still been married, perhaps even expecting a baby, as she was now—and Cora did not like to imagine her pregnant and slaving over machinery, on her feet for fourteen hours a day, but she knew that there were far worse things than poverty and work. Things both her daughters would have endured at the Foundling Hospital, where she knew that children were fed and educated, but certainly not loved or much tended to. Cora did not believe that that was a scar that would easily heal, and it troubled her greatly to wonder how it might have affected her girls. Would Eleanor have her warmth, if she had never seen warmth from anyone else? Would she be so tender and gentle, if no one had ever been tender and gentle with her? Would she know how to snuggle her own baby, if she had not spent so much of her early years snuggled onto Cora's lap?

"Mama?" Eleanor asked quietly, breaking into her thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm thinking about how very much I love you, darling," she said, brushing another kiss to her daughter's forehead. "How very much I love you."

* * *

"What do you want me to do?" Charlotte asked cautiously. Cora had drawn her into the morning room after dinner and had just relayed the story of her origins, which had been met at first with several minutes of silence.

"Darling, I'm not sure there's anything for you _to_ do," Cora said, nonplussed at the response. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, should I accept the fortune? Do you want me to?"

"Why, of course you should! It's rightfully yours. Your natural mother wanted you to have it, and there's no reason you shouldn't claim it. It's been sitting in a bank in London for over a decade, waiting for you."

"But will it…will it hurt you?" Charlotte said quietly. "Will you be upset, if I accept something from my natural mother?"

 _Oh._ So _that_ was Charlotte's hesitancy. It would have troubled her, yes, to watch Charlotte grow close to a natural mother—especially one that lived at Downton!—but it had not occurred to Cora to be bothered by the idea of Charlotte receiving an inheritance and merely knowing the story of her origins.

"Of course not," Cora said, warmed by her sweetness. "You've already accepted a great many things from your natural mother. Baxter says you look just like her."

"Does Baxter have a photograph? That is—if you don't mind; I–I'm curious, but I—"

Cora shook her head. "No, darling. I don't mind at all. Of course you're curious, and I don't know if she has a photo, but we can certainly ask. But if she doesn't, I gather looking in the mirror will show you nearly the same thing."

Charlotte nodded and fell silent again, and after a moment, Cora gently took her hand. "Do you have any more questions? It's perfectly all right to have questions about your history and about your natural mother."

"I…I might like to have Baxter tell me what she remembers about her," Charlotte said hesitantly. "Would that be all right? I don't want to hurt you—especially not right now—and you must tell me if it will."

"Oh, darling." Cora pulled Charlotte close to kiss her cheek. "No, this doesn't hurt me. It doesn't hurt me at all."

"I don't want you to think I love her instead of you," her daughter said softly. "Because you're my mother, and I love you very much, and I don't love her at all."

Cora kissed her again. "I know you love me. But, Charlotte," she said as she released her and Charlotte settled back onto the couch, "it's all right to love your natural mother as well." Her heart had broken when Baxter had shared the story with her, and she had ached for the young woman who had surely loved her daughter as much as she did.

"I…I don't. I don't feel anything for her."

"She sounds as though she loved you very much."

"I know," Charlotte said quietly. "I don't hate her—I'm not angry. It's only…it feels like a story about someone else. I–I can't quite imagine anyone but you as my mother in any way, even though I know of course I've got a natural mother."

"It's all right to feel that way," Cora told her gently, trying to imagine how odd it would be to be an adopted child herself, and to know that her mother had not been the woman who bore her. "There's no wrong way for you to feel."

"I am sorry for her," Charlotte went on. "I'm sorry she lost her baby—lost _me_ , that is." She shook her head as though trying to clear it. "Oh, it's so strange! I'm sure it was painful—I'm sure it was _horrid_ , but I can't regret that it happened, or I wouldn't have grown up here with you and Papa!"

 _But you wouldn't have known the difference,_ Cora thought. _You would have been just as happy, and just as loved, and you would have loved your natural mother just as much._ Yet she knew from all the time she had agonized over who her other babies might have been—and what would have become of Charlotte and Eleanor—had she adopted at a different time that this sort of thinking was not helpful.

"But you did," Cora said firmly. "You did grow up here, and we love you. And your natural mother loved you, too. That's all that matters, darling. You've been very much loved on all sides."

Charlotte fell silent again. "I'm not sure," she said in a small voice, "that I can think any more about this tonight."

"I understand, sweetheart." She could imagine that her daughter's head was absolutely spinning. "You don't have to. Just go home and get a good night's rest, and think about it more when you're ready." She kissed her temple. "I love you."


	24. Chapter 23

AN: All right, no more excuses—here's the arrival of the Cobert baby! I don't have kids (nor am I paralyzed!), so I've tried to do as much research as I can on what the delivery might have been like for Cora. A huge thank you to latifraise (who is also not paralyzed, but who does have several kids) for chatting with me about labor and for reading this chapter over!

I didn't want to do footnotes with this chapter, because it's so intense and I didn't want to "interrupt" people as they were reading, so here are a couple of notes upfront:

My original thinking when I started this story was that Cora could probably have a painless, or near-painless, labor because of her paralysis, one of the few pluses about her injury. However, as soon as I started researching it, I learned that was not the case. Because of where the uterine nerves connect to the spinal cord, you have to have a much higher injury (near your shoulder blades) to not feel your contractions, so Cora would be able to feel all of them, even those low in her stomach beneath where she usually has feeling. Her injury would also mean she'd feel a lot of her labor in her back.

I decided to give Cora both a midwife and a doctor (Clarkson), which would be very unusual. Midwives were generally used by the lower classes because they were cheaper, while the rich used doctors. (This is one of the reasons you were more likely to have a successful delivery if you were poorer—midwives generally just let the labor progress, because they didn't have the training to do anything fancy, whereas doctors, who were trying to justify their high fees and demonstrate their learning, were much more likely to intervene where it wasn't necessary, and a lot of those interventions were very dangerous.) However, I didn't think it would be unlikely here that Clarkson would bring a midwife with him, since she would have delivered a lot more babies than he, and he knows he has a difficult case here and would probably be hungry for as many perspectives as he could get. I also thought this would have the side effect of giving Cora an easier labor—early 20th century doctors wanted you flat on your back (which is the most uncomfortable position for most women), whereas a midwife would have been more open to other positions and would have been much more experienced with comfort measures. She also would have been able to look and see how far dilated Cora was, as well as look and see the baby when the time came. Most male doctors did not look at their patients and did everything by feel.

* * *

She'd realized she was in labor as she'd eaten her breakfast that morning, feeling her stomach tighten and telling Baxter to send for the doctor. Robert had suggested time and time again that he bring all sorts of childbirth experts to Downton when the time drew near, but Cora had adamantly refused—they didn't need a childbirth expert, she argued, when the problem had nothing to do with childbirth. Rather, they needed a paralysis expert—of which there were none, after Dr. Wagner's death several years earlier—or simply an expert on her. Dr. Clarkson, she had told Robert repeatedly, was absolutely an expert on her, and he had more experience with paralysis than any other doctor in England after years with her as his patient. And—although she did not mention this to Robert, knowing he would be swayed by a logical argument, not an emotional one—she was comfortable with Clarkson. She knew him, and she trusted him. Both were immensely important to her now, for, though she did not like to admit it, Cora was frightened of labor.

And thus it was Clarkson who arrived at Downton on that cold December morning, bringing with him a local woman he regarded as a skilled midwife.

The early hours had been easy ones, and Cora had been able to relax, resting against her pillows as a mild cramping in her stomach marked each contraction, her belly tightening under her hands. If this was labor, she wasn't sure what all the fuss had been about—this wasn't so terrible, certainly in comparison to all the pain she'd endured thus far in her life. She was surprised to discover how far down in her stomach she had feeling, but it was not very painful, and she had long breaks in between.

Clarkson had not remained in her room always, spending much of his time talking with Robert in the library, giving her space and only returning periodically to check her progress. The midwife, an older woman in her sixties, had stayed, but she mostly sat in the winged chair, observing quietly and answering Cora's questions.

It was far too early, Cora had been told, for any pushing—even an able-bodied woman would have hours yet before she was told to do so. All there was to do now was to sit and wait for her labor to progress. Robert himself had flitted in and out, talking with her, stroking her hair, and letting her squeeze his hand if she needed to. But she did not feel any great need for him, and thus she encouraged him to go on about his day or to sit with Clarkson while she distracted herself with a bit of embroidery. She was fine. All of this was fine.

And then, sometime after luncheon, she felt it—a new pressure in her lower back, her injured nerves catching fire, so much worse than what she'd been feeling for weeks, a harsh pain that made her wonder if her vertebra were snapping in two. She was vaguely conscious that the midwife had stood and come to her side, but she could think only of how badly she wanted Robert now.

"Please!" she cried out. "Please get my husband! Please, I need Robert!"

"Yes, milady. I'll fetch both his lordship and the doctor."

Cora tried to breathe as the other woman darted out the door, tried to force herself to take deep breaths, tried to think of Robert, think of the girls, think of something beyond the pain. Why did it hurt like this? She could feel no contraction in her stomach. Surely it wasn't supposed to be this way?

"Darling?" There were Robert and Clarkson, and she was aware of her husband reaching out to smooth her hair, but then she felt her belly contract again, and her spine exploded.

"Robert!" she cried, reaching blindly for him. _"Robert!"_

Her eyes were shut tightly, but she felt him take both of her hands, and she squeezed as hard as she could, as though she could force the pain out of her body.

"Darling, what's wrong?" she heard him say, as though from a great distance, but she could not answer him, could manage nothing other than a low groan as she tightened her grip on his hands.

"How long has she been thus?" she heard Robert ask the midwife, and she recognized the fear in his voice, yet she knew she could not soothe it, because she was suddenly very, very afraid herself.

"She was fine, milord, until just before I came downstairs—"

"She's not fine now. What's wrong with her? One of you, do something—"

"It's my back," Cora managed as the contraction faded and her belly relaxed. "It's…I've never felt anything like this." And she hadn't, she truly hadn't. She couldn't remember ever hurting this much.

"Where at, love?" Robert asked gently.

"My lower back. Where I was hurt—I feel like someone's hitting me with a sledgehammer, right where my back's broken, and I can't get it to _stop_." Her voice rose in pitch at her last few words, and she struggled against a dry sob.

"Shh," she heard him murmur as she felt his hands slip behind her. He kissed her temple as she felt him begin to rub her back. "Let me help you."

"Give her firm pressure, Lord Grantham," Clarkson said, prodding her belly carefully. "It's the baby descending toward the birth canal." _Descending toward the birth canal._ Oh, thank God, that meant she was close. She could feel Robert's hands pressing hard into her muscles, and it helped, but she still hurt. Oh, she still hurt!

"That can put a great deal of pressure on the spine," Clarkson went on, "and of course Lady Grantham's back is already sensitive."

"But it's almost over?" she asked, almost begging him to say yes. "If the baby's descending…I'm almost done?"

Clarkson shook his head. "No, milady. You've got some time yet."

"How…how much longer?"

Clarkson and the midwife exchanged a look that Cora did not like at all, and then the midwife lifted the hem of her gown to examine her progress. "It's hard to say, milady," she said softly. "But some hours yet."

 _Hours?_

"You'll get a break in a moment, darling," she heard Robert murmur. "There are breaks in a woman's labor pains, aren't there, doctor?"

"From the contractions in her womb, yes, but this isn't that sort of pain, milord," Clarkson said softly. "She's not contracted at the moment." Oh God, was this to be constant? Constant for hours?

 _He's wrong,_ Cora tried to tell herself. _He's simply wrong, because this_ must _pass._ But it did not, and eventually, she felt the cramping in her belly again, and her back seemed to rip in two. She heard herself scream and could feel no shame for it as she leaned forward—she was loathe to pull away from the comfort of Robert's hands, but she had to lean forward. She _had_ to.

The world spun for a long moment until at last she felt herself ease. "Darling—" she heard Robert begin, fear in his voice, but she shook her head.

"I've got to get off my back," she said. "I–I can't lie on my back like this." She could not think clearly enough to know how she wanted to lie, but it was not on her back. Anything but on her back!

The midwife called for her to be turned on her left side, and Cora closed her eyes, unsuccessfully trying to hold back her moans as various pairs of hands moved her slowly into the new position, Robert slipping the pillows between her legs and beneath her belly that she'd grown accustomed to.

"Is that better, darling?" he asked anxiously, his hands pressing firm circles into her back again. "Does it feel better to be on your side?"

"A–a bit," she said, and it did, but…oh, nothing seemed to help enough! It was as though some invisible hand had ahold of the end of her spine and was twisting it. She tried to concentrate on Robert's hands instead, tried to find a few minutes of peace, but she soon felt her womb tighten again. The hand twisting her spine seemed to yank sharply, sending spasms up her back, and she cried out again. Surely this was not right!

"Oh, God, can you do _nothing_ for her?" she heard Robert beg either the doctor or the midwife or perhaps both.

"I can't," Cora said, feeling her strength crumbling as tears began to leak from her eyes, "I _can't_."

"Is she in danger, Clarkson?" she heard Robert ask tensely. "Will she need the operation?"

She felt no fear or dread of the response and realized it was because she did not care if she was in danger. She _hoped_ she was in danger. The only thing she feared now was hours more of this pain. It was perfectly all right with her if Clarkson performed a caesarean, passed a healthy baby into her husband's arms, and then let her slip away. Anything to stop this pain.

"She's not in danger, milord," she heard the doctor say, and her heart sank. "There's nothing to suggest she can't deliver on her own."

Oh, but there was! Surely there was too much pain for her to deliver on her own!

"Please," she sobbed, " _please_. I can't. Robert, I _can't_!"

"Shh." She felt him kiss her shoulder. "You can do this, darling. I know how strong you are. Be strong for me, Cora. Be strong for the baby."

"You can manage, Lady Grantham," she heard Clarkson say calmly. "Your body will know what to do when the time comes."

Oh, but her body knew what to do now—and it was to _move_. The urge to walk was sudden and almost overpowering.

"I need to get up," she said suddenly. "I need to get up and walk. It would help if I could just _walk_!"

"Darling…" she heard Robert's voice say, sharp with what she recognized as tears held back.

"I need to walk!" she repeated, as though she could will her body to be capable if she said it enough times. "I know it would help to walk!" She did not know how she knew, but she was suddenly very, very sure that the pain in her back would be better if she were on her feet.

"Oh, my sweet Cora." She felt Robert press a wet kiss to her neck. "I am so, so _sorry_. For all of this."

"You're all right lying down, Lady Grantham," Clarkson said. "You're _meant_ to be lying down for childbirth."

"Movement would help her," the midwife argued quietly. "Can she not walk at all? Even with support?"

She heard Clarkson and Robert both answer in the negative. "Will it–will it hurt my baby if I don't get up?" she asked, frightened at the thought that disobeying her body in this regard was terribly wrong. "Do I need to stand up to get her to come out?"

"No, milady." The midwife again. "It's only for your own comfort." She paused. "Would you like to try some heat on your back? I've seen many women find it helpful to alternate massage and heat."

"Yes, please," she murmured. The longer this went on and the more used to the pressure of his hands she became, the less Robert's massage seemed to ease her.

A few minutes later, she felt the soothing warmth of a hot water bottle against her back, and she sighed. "I'll hold it there," she heard Robert say quietly. His other hand began to stroke her hair. "You're being very brave, darling," he whispered.

Brave? She didn't feel brave at all. "I just wish my legs worked," she said softly, and he kissed her neck again.

Slowly, the heat began to feel less and less significant, and when she began to whimper again, the midwife suggested moving her a second time, propping her up so that she could lean forward with her belly downward. "That's better for most women, your ladyship, and I didn't suggest it because I didn't think you could, but I've given it some thought and—"

"I'm not sure that's—"

Cora cut off what she sensed was an objection from Clarkson, for she knew in her body that this was the position she craved. "Oh, please let's try that. Please!"

This was a harder bit of maneuvering, for the midwife wanted Cora's legs folded beneath her so that she could sit back on them and then stretch her body forward, her belly dropping down and her head and chest supported on a pile of pillows. She could feel Robert struggling to push her legs into place, but at last he had her right, and she could lean forward, sighing as she felt some of the pressure ease off her spine.

"Does that help you, darling?" She could hear the relief in Robert's voice and knew that he could see it on her face.

She nodded. "Yes. It still hurts, but this does help."

Clarkson and the midwife were arguing in the distance—he seemed troubled that her womb could not push from this position, and she was saying that was still hours away—but it was fading into background noise for Cora. Robert had begun massaging her back again, and in this position that was heavenly.

"Here, Lord Grantham," she heard the midwife say distantly. "Let me show you something she may like even better, now that we've got her belly pointing down. Move your hands over, above her hips—" she felt his hands guided into another position "—and then press in and up."

"Ohh," she breathed, feeling a deep relief at the stretch in her muscles. "Please keep doing that. That…helps."

She had closed her eyes, resting in the momentary peace, but she felt him kiss her temple. "I'm glad, darling," he said, his voice hoarse with feeling. "I'm glad we've found something that works."

Then her muscles contracted again, and it still hurt her back, but…not as badly here. Nothing hurt as badly here. It had never been the contractions themselves that had been so terribly painful, but the way her spine responded to them, and that was so very much better now.

She knew her screams and her tears and her groans were hurting Robert deeply, and thus she tried to stay silent, now that she was in less pain, yet she still could not hold back her whimpers as her back seized.

"I'm sorry," she whispered when it was done. "I know I'm upsetting you."

She heard him chuckle softly. "Don't apologize to me, sweetheart." He kissed her hair. "Make all the noise you need to. I'm just glad we've eased you enough that you're not screaming anymore."

"Will my baby still come out?" she asked the midwife, worrying now about the argument she had heard a few minutes ago.

"Yes, milady…when the time comes, yes. But I think you've got hours. I had a look when you were lying on your side, remember?"

She didn't remember that, but she didn't doubt it, either. Everything was blurring together. She nodded, hoping it was true that her baby would eventually come, hoping it would find its own way out, hoping her body could find a way to use the muscles she couldn't control and push when necessary.

"You're doing well, milady," the older woman went on. "Try to relax now while you can, and don't fight the pains. It will be easier if you don't tense your body. Sleep for a bit, if you can—you'll need your strength for later."

"I'm not sure I can sleep," Cora whispered, her eyes still closed and her voice so quiet she was not sure anyone but Robert heard her. "My pains…"

"You've got a good twenty minutes between them, darling," he murmured, and it surprised her, for they'd felt far more frequent. "I think you can doze off in between, if you relax. You're more comfortable now, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"Good." She felt a light kiss to her forehead. "Just let yourself rest."

"The baby…"

"Will still come," he assured her. "Don't think about your labor. Just concentrate on my hands."

That she could do, she thought. The sensation of Robert's hands rubbing her back was a familiar and comforting one, and she had fallen asleep this way countless times in the last twenty years. She took a deep breath of his scent, letting it soothe her as it always did, and tried to pretend they were curled up in bed together, tonight no different from any other night.

Cora was nearly asleep when she felt her body tighten again, and she whimpered at the sudden pain.

"Easy," he murmured. "Don't tense. You know it doesn't help you when you tense."

She did know that. She knew very well from her injury that tensing her muscles only made matters worse. She took a deep breath and tried to give herself over to the pain, sighing as it faded away, and she slowly slid into sleep, dreaming vividly of herself and Robert holding a baby.

* * *

Cora awoke what must have been several hours later—night had now fallen outside her window—feeling a new intensity in the pains in her midsection, and she gasped at the unpleasant sensation. A very familiar hand clasped hers, and she squeezed until the pain had eased.

"Robert?" she asked softly, almost disbelieving in his presence. He was the last person she had expected to find there, thinking he would surely have slipped out while she slept, or perhaps even been ordered away so that there would be no risk of him seeing the birth itself. But oh, how glad she was to feel his hand in hers!

And how she _dreaded_ the departure she knew would have to come.

"I'm right here, darling," he said, the hand she wasn't holding beginning to rub her back again. She opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her, his own eyes crinkled with worry. "I'm right here," he repeated. "I haven't gone anywhere."

"I slept?" she asked, not quite comprehending how it had been possible to rest for so long.

He kissed her forehead. "For a good while. You stirred at your first few pains, but after that you didn't seem to feel them at all. You've missed quite a few."

"They've gotten worse now," she said, realizing what had awakened her. Was Clarkson still here? "That one was much worse."

"That's a good sign," she heard the doctor say. "You should be further along now."

"Can we turn her?" the midwife's voice asked. "I'd like to have another look."

Cora nodded, sensing that she was stiffening after hours huddled in this position. "Please, on my side, please."

She was further, she learned soon, but not nearly far enough, and the minutes turned into hours of panting through contractions and squeezing Robert's hand until she thought she'd break his fingers and moaning and sobbing at the pain in her back that he no longer seemed to be able to ease.

She was not sure what time it was, but she sensed it was quite late when the midwife checked her again and then addressed Robert. "Lord Grantham, I think you'll need to be going. Her ladyship's getting quite close."

Of course she'd known this would happen—had been stunned that it hadn't already—but…no, he couldn't leave! She couldn't be left alone!

"No, please!" she heard herself cry out, grabbing hold of his hand again. "Please, Robert!"

She'd thought he would pull away, for surely he was horrified at the idea of witnessing birth, but he held on quite steadily. "Be still, darling. I'm not going anywhere."

Clarkson took hold of his other arm in an attempt to usher him out the door. "Milord, you can't be present for—"

"Dammit, man!" Robert shook him off, almost violently. "I will _not_ leave her ladyship!"

"Please let him stay," Cora whispered, the tears that had started and stopped and started again for hours returning. "Please, I need him!" And she did, for what was coming next was what had frightened her most. Suppose her body didn't push?

She heard no further objections from either the doctor or the midwife, but most importantly, she felt Robert press a firm kiss to her fingers, a kiss that promised he'd need the entire army to drive him from her bedroom.

"We'll need you to sit up or lie back again, Lady Grantham," Clarkson said. "This will be easier that way."

Easier for whom? Cora groaned as she was maneuvered onto her back, knowing instantly that it hurt more this way, and her pains were almost on top of each other now. She rested her head back against the pillows, closing her eyes and catching her breath once she'd been settled, and then felt a cool washcloth pressed against her forehead.

"You're almost there, darling," she heard Robert's voice say. "You're almost there."

She knew he meant to sound encouraging, and he did, on the surface, but beneath his words she could hear a creeping terror in his voice, and she knew he was just as scared as she was. Because what if this didn't work? What if she couldn't push?

And soon, she felt it…an overpowering urge to _push_ , a sense that she must push or the world would end, a feeling that pushing now was more important than anything she'd ever done in her life. She felt herself strain, trying to push down with her shoulders and her chest and the upper part of her abdomen…but, no, that wasn't what she needed. She needed the muscles in her hips, the muscles in her lower body, the muscles her brain couldn't communicate with anymore. That was what needed to move.

"I can't; I can't!" she shrieked, panicking. "I can't _push_!"

"Why can't she?" she heard Robert demand. "You said her womb would push! Why doesn't it? Why doesn't it?"

"We don't know that it isn't, milord," Clarkson said, his fingers examining her tightened belly. "It's too early to tell yet. I think it may be."

"I'm not, I'm not!" she cried, for all she could feel was the pain. There was no pushing that _she_ could sense. "I'm not pushing! I _can't_!"

"Darling, let's wait and be calm," Robert told her, but she could feel that he was anything but calm himself.

The contraction eased, and Cora loosened her grip on his hand. "I'm not sure this is working," she said quietly, calmer now that she had a break. "I'm just—I don't think… _ohh_." There was the pain again, and that all-consuming urge to push. "Oh God, I _can't_ …I _want_ to, but I _can't_! I don't think…I don't think the baby's _coming_ , Robert!" Had she endured hell all day, for nothing?

 _"_ _Clarkson!"_ he shouted, but the doctor was intent upon her stomach and did not answer.

"There's movement," he said at last. "She's pushing even if she can't feel it. There's movement in her womb. Not enough yet—"

"When will it be _enough_?" she cried. When would any of this be enough? Hadn't she had enough pain for a lifetime?

"I don't know, milady," Clarkson said. "I think it may be some time yet, since you can't speed the process."

She began to sob at his words. "Please, _please_ ," she begged, although she was not sure what she was asking for. Please make the baby come? Please just cut me open and take it? Oh, please, please make the pain stop!

Robert moved to sit behind her, shifting her body so that she could lean back on his chest, and she sagged against him, weeping as he held her. "I can't, I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this any longer."

"Almost there," he whispered, his own voice tight. "You're almost there."

But she shook her head. No, she wasn't. She didn't believe it would ever finish.

"I just…I need to _push_!" she exclaimed again, for she could think of nothing but the pain and that overwhelming urge. "Oh God, I'm _scared_." Not of dying, for she welcomed anything that would end this. Not even of the baby dying…in truth, she did not know what she was afraid of; it was only that she felt that terrible things would happen if she did not push.

Robert kissed her but said nothing, and she knew that he was scared, too.

"My back…my _back_ …" She was being hit with the hammer again, only this time it was white-hot, and her nerves were erupting.

She felt him shift so that he could massage her again, but she shook her head. She was past that, now. "No, that doesn't help anymore. Just…just hold me." He tightened his grip, and she tried, and failed, to focus only on his arms. Then there was a sudden, sharp burning where she was used to the pleasurable sensation of Robert entering her, and she groaned.

"You're nearly there, Lady Grantham," she heard the midwife say. "The head—the head is presenting."

The head? Was she really that close? Was it really almost over?

"Darling," Robert said hesitantly, "may I…may I go and look?"

"Oh yes, yes!" She was suddenly so eager to know what could be seen that she nearly forgot the pain.

Robert rested her back against the pillows and scrambled to the foot of the bed, pushing his way around a shocked midwife. Cora watched him for a moment as he stared down at her, almost disbelieving…and then she saw tears fill his eyes and begin to stream down his cheeks.

Silently, he reached out one finger and touched something, and then reached up for her hand. "Give me your hand," he said breathlessly. "I want you to feel."

She let him pull her hand down between her legs, settling her fingers against something firm. She was so used to touching the lower half of her body and feeling nothing that it took her a moment to realize it was _not_ her own body that she was touching.

"It's the baby, isn't it?" she whispered, and he nodded.

Robert came back to hold her again, but it was as though the pain didn't matter now. Not now that she had felt the baby. Not now that she knew it was almost here.

And then, at last, she felt the knives in her body fade away as an infant's cry filled the room.

"I–I've had a baby," Cora gasped, suddenly stunned at what had happened as she watched Clarkson begin wiping the child off. "I've…given birth." She started to sob again, her head against Robert's shoulder, and he kissed her.

* * *

AN: Yes, I know, I know, you still don't know what the baby is. :-) I've decided to do a short epilogue, which I'll be posting in a couple days, where I'll reveal the gender…as well as the gender of Eleanor's baby.


	25. Epilogue

**April 1914**

"Cora! Darling, are you out here?" Robert called, tramping across the yard toward the walled Monks' Garden. Carson had told him she'd gone out, and he knew this was one of her favorite places.

"Cora!" he called as he reached the fence and opened the gate. He did not see her amongst the arched hedges. "Cora?"

"I'm back here!" he heard her voice call distantly. "On the other side of the wall!"

He quickly crossed the garden, finding the pale green door in the old stone of the side wall and pulling it open. Cora was seated in her wheelchair on the other side, in the midst of the two long rows of bushes and flowers known as Downton's secret garden.

"I thought we'd come sit here instead," she told him. "There's more in bloom out here, and William likes the bright colors…don't you, darling?" she cooed, bending down to nuzzle the four-month-old sitting on her lap. William, who was busy stuffing a small plush lamb in his mouth, gurgled happily.

Robert's heart swelled as he watched them. _I love you,_ he wanted to say. _I'm so proud of you. Darling, you're amazing._ He still could not quite comprehend that his paralyzed wife had carried a baby and given birth, given him a son and an heir.

"You've got a letter," he said instead, passing her the envelope he'd been carrying in his coat pocket. "From Eleanor."

Cora laughed as she took it. "Didn't we just leave the Napiers' two days ago?" They had just returned from another trip to see to their new granddaughter, their second extended visit in her four weeks of life. "Let's see what your big sister has to say," she said to William, tearing open the envelope as he fought to grab hold of it. "I see you're very curious…I bet it's about your favorite niece."

Robert watched as Cora's eyes scanned the letter, her features lighting up with joy the further she read. She was _beautiful_ , and he was not sure he had ever been so aware of it as he had been in the last few months. Perhaps this was because of the abstinence he insisted on—he was happy to touch her and to let her touch him, but there would be no full intercourse for at least two more years, for Robert was determined not to put her through another pregnancy. However, he suspected his new awareness of her beauty had more to do with the surprising strength he'd seen in their son's delivery. He'd known for years that she was stronger than he emotionally, but the sudden physical strength he had seen in her body as she'd labored had stunned him, and he was now more in awe of Cora than ever before.

"Has Eleanor sent news about Cara?" he finally asked her.

"'News' is probably a strong word," she said, laughing again. "She tells me when, and how much, Cara's slept since we've been gone, and how much she's eaten, and which little dress she's wearing today. All those little details."

He had seen Cora keep a careful log of each of their daughters' activities in the weeks after their arrivals, and she had done the same with William. Eleanor appeared to be equally fascinated with her baby's every move.

"She's such a darling baby," Cora went on, beaming as she gazed back down at the letter. "We'll need to go see her again soon—or have them come here when Eleanor is a bit more recovered. William would like that, wouldn't you, sweetheart? Wouldn't you like to see Cara again?" Cora tickled him, and he giggled.

William's interactions with his new niece had been limited to poking her curiously when he'd been held near her, but Robert thought his favorite part of the whole visit had been watching his wife and his daughter sit together with their babies, passing them back and forth and cooing over their own and each other's, sharing the warmth of new motherhood.

And perhaps in the autumn, Charlotte would join them. She had confided in her mother several months ago that Clarkson had told her she could not have children, but she was quite serene about the matter, saying she had always intended to adopt at least one child, anyway. She and Matthew had recently announced that they were thinking of taking their first baby after they had been married a full year. The younger Crawleys were living quite nearby, having bought a grand townhome in York with part of Charlotte's inheritance.

"Cara is even littler than you are," he heard Cora tell William, kissing the top of his fuzz-covered head.

"He's getting to be quite big," Robert observed proudly, stroking his son's cheek with one finger as William stared up at him, his eyes wide. "A strapping little viscount."

"And he's going to be a strong, handsome earl like his father someday," Cora said. "You'll be big and strong, yes?" she said to the baby, cuddling him closer. "Your papa's a very strong man."

"But not as strong as your mama," Robert said, gazing at her and feeling the familiar pride bubbling in his chest.

"Don't be silly, Robert," she said, brushing the compliment off with a smile.

"No, my darling," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I am very, _very_ proud of you."

* * *

AN: Thank you all so much for joining me for this story! I know many of you have been on board since the beginning of The Broken Places a year ago, and I'm honored that you've stuck with me for the whole journey. I've loved writing this AU, and I've loved hearing from so many of you.

Several people have asked me if I'll be writing another sequel for Season 2, or any of the later seasons, and at this point I'm not planning to - mostly because I don't have enough of a "different" plot in mind, and I don't want to just rehash canon with the adjustment of Cora being in a wheelchair. However, I am very curious about how Cora would react to Matthew's war injury (and especially to his recovery from his injury), so I may do a one-shot or two of Season 2 set in this universe that explores that situation.

I don't expect to be posting anything until September at the earliest, though. I have a really intense graduate school program over the summer (it's basically meant to be two semesters crammed into one, so it's going to be awful), and I don't think I'll have any spare time at all. However, the autumn semester is supposed to be a bit more normal, and I'm hoping I'll be able to get back into writing then, even if it's just a one-shot or a drabble here or there!


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